


Sticks and Stones and Animal Bones

by Strigimorphaes



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Magic, Eventual cosmic horror, Hallucinations, Lovecraftian, M/M, Magic, Magic is a secret, Mutual Pining, Polyamory, Urban Fantasy, Witches, funhaus cameo, micheoff, multiple POVs, serious lovecraft and robert chambers references, the others are also there but not as much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-19
Updated: 2016-05-11
Packaged: 2018-04-16 12:44:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 120,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4625769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Strigimorphaes/pseuds/Strigimorphaes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael Jones is an unlucky student with an anger problem, but an encounter in the woods leads to the discovery that he has a magical Gift. He also discovers a coven of similar individuals - most importantly Geoff Ramsey, who takes it upon himself to teach Michael what he needs to know about his powers. The apprenticeship takes a turn for the complicated, though, when Michael starts falling for the older man...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bad Decisions

**Author's Note:**

> ("Sticks and stones and animal bones / Can't stop me from having a good day or a bad day", as Kaiser Chiefs put it.)
> 
> The magic system is very very vague - if needed, I can elaborate on what little I've decided on, but really, just go with the flow. The setting is somewhere vaguely around New England, but it is not important at all. I'm always up for messages at strigimorphaes.tumblr.com if there's anything you wanna do with that.  
> There are some text message conversations that might be tricky to parse and some images that might be missing in mobi/epub format. It is mentioned in the author's notes for the chapter if it includes an image, and they are not vital to the plot.

”So everything just went to shit?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“…That sucks, Michael.”

“Yeah.”

“What’re you going to do now?”

“I don’t know! Cross my fingers that I can somehow find another fucking job so I can continue to work my way through what is probably the shittiest community college in the state?” Michael can almost _hear_ Lindsay shake her head through the static-y cellphone connection. “I didn’t plan on getting fucking fired so soon.”

“We’ll figure something out.”

Michael suppresses the urge to scoff.  “Maybe.”

“Anyway, my shift’s starting. I’ll call you back later, ok?”

“Sure.”

“By the way, are you coming over to Kerry’s tonight? I know he wants you to come hang out.”

Michael can hear her jacket rustling in the background followed by a door opening and closing. He makes a fist of his left hand, hidden in his pocket. “Nah,” he says. “I think I’m just going to be alone for a bit. Time to be angry, you know?”

“You should get some space and _then_ get your ass over to Kerry’s movie marathon,” Lindsay teases. “Now I’ve _really_ got to go, so, um, bye again.”

“Bye again.”

The next thing he hears is the tone. His finger hovers over the button on his cellphone, not ending the call just yet. He leans back into the seat, propping his feet up on the dashboard. Takes in the whole moment. Here he is, in the prime of his youth, in his ancient car in an empty parking lot. 

 _Beep-beep-beep_.

He can see himself in the rear-view mirror. His hair is messy and he’s got a blue mark the size of a fist – funny that, since a fist to the face was how he got it – stretching across his right cheek. Maybe just saying that he got fired was a bit of an understatement.

_Beep-_

Michael finally ends the call. He does not let the silence last for long - he fills it with engine noise and mechanical murmurs as he starts up the car. He does not know where he is going. It is grey and cold outside, the kind of weather in which nothing looks interesting. To make matters worse the sun is just about to set, ending another pitiful January day.

Pulling out of the parking lot, he heads right on a whim. Asphalt soon gives way to gravel – that’s what you get for living in a rural area – and the landscape around him turns rough. The grass grows taller and the fields more distant. Deep ditches come and go by the side  of the road, threatening to swallow travelers with sharp branches and pieces of factory iron instead of teeth. Michael’s eyes are on the sky, following the telephone wires. He exhales only when he is so far away from the city that there is no pollution in the air, nor any smell of metal, and even though it is cold he fills his lungs greedily. His legs grow restless by the pedals.

The road has already split several times before, but this time Michael chooses to turn down a new branch. No sign marks it. He has not been there before, though he is pretty sure the road will lead him into the woods, and that’s all he needs to know. It is uneven, taking sharp twists and turns, but it’s not like he has any problems navigating it, so he drives on just to see how far he can get.

The pines that appear around the car are tall and dark, swaying in the wind. The road comes to a stop after what Michael supposes must be a mile or so, the gravel disappearing under the grass and a layer of soft brown needles.

Michael steps outside and feels the chill immediately. He draws his jacket closer around himself and wanders closer to the nearest tree. He stares at it as if he could intimidate it.

“Fuck!”

Yelling alone helps only a little, so the outburst is accompanied by a kick to the tree’s trunk. Michael feels a little pride when the impact makes a few needles fall from above him, raining down into his hair, so he does it again. When he exhales afterwards, he is already better.

Still, he heads deeper into the small wood, stepping over fallen branches and past old, mossy boulders. A few empty soda cans lie nestled by a patch of dense copse. _Assholes leaving their garbage out…_

Letting himself be angry feels good. 

Michael hits another tree, his knuckles scraping against rough bark. He gasps, swallowing the cold air, filling his lungs until he feels like he’s about to burst. When he exhales slowly he breathes mist. He pretends he isn’t acting like an idiot, fooling around in a forest and hitting trees – instead, he is actually hitting the world, punch by punch.

And for some strange reason, that feels like the right things to do.

It feels good.

When he lets his hand fall back to his side he notices something etched into the side of the tree. The mark seems to have been made with a knife, a few straight lines that almost form an arrow. Maybe some dumb kid with a switchblade. 

Taking a few steps forward, Michael recognizes a similar symbol on the next tree – and then the next, and one a little further away… He walks briskly from one to the other, letting his fingertips graze the etchings. 

 _Not like I have anything better to do anyway_ , he thinks. _Might as well find the rest._

He does not know how he knows that there are more, but sure enough: as he goes deeper and deeper into the woods, they appear. Michael finds his way from tree to tree, the task growing harder as his surroundings grow wilder. He jumps across a small creek, climbs across a fallen tree, the tasks giving him purpose that makes him forget entirely about his day. He finds little circles and triangles and things that are more like runes than plain geometry. 

The seventh mark he finds looks like a circle with a diamond in the center, and the tree it is carved into is clearly very old. There, Michael pauses.

As he traces the lines with his fingers he can hear rustling up ahead, like footsteps, and something lighter than that - breathing, maybe. 

He is no longer alone.

He leans out from behind the tree and takes a peek at what lies before him.

There is a small glade in which the earth is bared below and where no leaves obscure the darkening sky above. For a moment Michael considers how long he has been wandering for the sun to set this much, but then something else occupies his mind. A man sits in the dead center of the clearing, but his back is turned to Michael. Dark earth clings to his pants and the lower part of a ragged t-shirt. His hair is black and short, and then Michael sees his arms...

It’s a strange sight.

The man’s arms are spread wide as if preparing to embrace something great and invisible – as if praying, Michael thinks. Tattoos coil around them all the way out to the man’s fingers, mixing with streaks of dirt and dust. Glints of silver come and go by his wrists. As Michael’s eyes travel down the man’s body he sees a ring of stones on the ground, surrounding the stranger, placed there for some unknown purpose.

The man is probably a lunatic, Michael decides.

He digs his fingers into the cracks of the thick bark and keeps watching out of morbid curiosity. He wonders if he should try to breathe quieter, but soon he stops worrying as the man begins talking to himself. His voice sounds like a deep hum, coming from somewhere in the very back of his throat. Michael can’t tell what the words are or even what language it is, but he can feel that there’s a rhythm to it. A steady rise and fall, like breathing, like the wind. It makes the hairs on Michael’s arms stand up and makes his skin crawl in a way that’s almost pleasant. He doesn’t know why, but he blames fear.

After all, the man is definitely a lunatic.

Not one for staying around to find out what someone like that would do if he discovered he had been spied on, Michael takes a step back.

The movement makes a branch snap audibly under his feet, and Michael bites down hard on his lips to prevent himself from swearing out loud. The sound echoes between the trees, and he does not need to look to know that the stranger heard him when the hum stops abruptly. Even if it had been the most harmless old lady ever Michael wouldn’t have felt like meeting her, both because of the darkened woods and because of fear that he himself might treat any human being he could meet like he did the trees.

Michael swallows once before he sets of, taking long, fast steps. He should get back to his car. He should…

He looks back and sees that the man has gotten to his feet. He’s definitely about to follow Michael who can’t help but wonder why instincts are not kicking in. He doesn’t run immediately. He stands still until the stranger has taken four unsteady steps in his direction, until Michael can see his face. 

In the last few months, working a shitty service job, Michael has seen so many utterly forgettable faces, but this is not one of them. The man has tired eyes with dark shadows underneath them, making Michael think of an insomniac, though the stains on his band t-shirt could also belong to an alcoholic. He has at least a day’s stubble and a moustace that would have made Michael laugh had he not been alone in the dark woods with this guy.

There is something else, too, in that face that Michael finds harder to describe: a glow in his eyes, a sense of urgency scrawled across his dilated pupils.

Michael starts running.

His feet come crashing down on crunching leaves again and again, cold air feeling colder when it hits his face like gusts of wind. He hears his own blood pump but almost doesn't see the forest for dumb horror movies playing in his head. He jumps across a dry creek and past gnarled roots of great pines and looks back to see the man stand utterly still at the edge of bramble and thicket. 

The stranger looks almost like a ruined growth that didn’t quite make it into a tree. Black against the spaces between the tall trunks, a light mist around his feet. Silent.

He looks at Michael.

He looks at Michael and does not stop staring, Michael is certain of that, certain as he feels the man’s eyes on him all the way back to the car. He opens the door with a violent pull and throws himself into the driver’s seat.

He sits for a moment before starting the engine. Adrenaline fades from his body and his mind grows clearer, slower. He grips the steering wheel tight. It was probably either a homeless guy, an insane guy (but not homicidal-insane, just weird-insane), a new-age guy or maybe some unholy combination of all three. Either way, nothing to be scared of. Michael almost scoffs at himself; why was he ever nervous?

Satisfied that his urge to punch absolutely everything has faded, he puts his key in the ignition.

He needs to get home.

It’ll be dark soon.    

* * *

Thursday comes with grey skies and the threat of rain hanging overhead. People on campus are covered up in jackets and hoodies with the drawstrings pulled tight, hiding behind umbrellas and hurrying from one building to another. Every so often a few raindrops fall, creating dark, wet imprints on the dusty asphalt, but it is almost as if the rain is held back. The perfect moment has yet to come: for now everyone awaits the downpour patiently.

When Michael steps out of the southern building, he clenches his grip around the shoulder strap of his bag. Class had been uneventful, a blur of voices. Now he takes in the cool air, the specific smell of earth and water only found in winter.

He should have gone to bed earlier, he thinks, rubbing the back of his sore neck. Instead he had spent the last night sitting cross-legged in front of his TV, playing videogames until he could no longer ignore the glowing numbers of his digital clock in the corner of his room. Games were a powerful distrtaction, maybe because they gave him power.  And a voice had been buzzing through his headset - whoever BrownMan was behind the gamer tag, he was seemingly always online when Michael was, and they were _good_ together _._

Now, Michael leans back against the brick wall, looking absentmindedly out over the green. He is almost lost in the shapes of the lawn and the people walking there, in the distant chatter about the weather he heard from all around him when there is suddenly a hand on his shoulder.

“There you are!” Turning around, he sees Lindsay, her face not wearing its usual smile. “Have you been avoiding me on purpose?”

“Not at all, just… got busy.”

“You could’ve answered my texts.”

“Yeah, sorry about that.”

“Got anymore classes?”

“One more. Burns.”

Lindsay crosses her arms in front of her and leans back against the wall as well. “I’m done for the day. I guess I have to study, so if you want you can join me in the library later.” She sighs. “Spanish.”

“I probably should,” Michael admits. “I should probably also get going if I want to get to my next class before the break is over.”

“I’ll walk with you.”

As they walk out onto the grass, Lindsay hums, arms swinging as they walk past a group of students sitting in the grass staring down at their separate phones. The background noise fades as they get further away from the building. There’s a small area that Michael hesitates to call a park between them and the building where Burns is waiting for him. The trees seem to long for the rain, all small and with brown, dry leaves.

For some reason, Michael feels uneasy. He keeps swallowing, but his mouth keeps tasting bitter and too warm, somehow. Something almost like nausea resides in his stomach, coming and going in waves, but it is not entirely unpleasant. A bit like anticipation, but for what, he cannot say.

There are fewer people walking on the winding path here. Michael isn’t really paying attention; he listens to Lindsay as she talks.  Her story about what happened at Kerry’s when Michael wasn’t there fades out quickly, however, and she lowers her voice to a whisper, placing her hand on Michael’s arm and pulling him a bit closer.

“Do you feel it too?” she asks.

“What?”

“Like you’re being watched.”

Michael pauses, looking around. There are only three or four people in view, all of them young students like them, none of whom he knows. Maybe being watched could be the explanation for the way he feels but-

“Why would anyone want to spy on us?” he asks, “You’re just fucking with me, Lindsay.”

She pouts slightly. “You don’t trust my womanly intuition or what?”

“Or what.”

“Let’s just get a move on, okay? So, anyway, Kerry was getting really terrified at that point, so that’s when I took the fake spiders…”

Michael does his best to concentrate during the lecture. Burns – Burnie as the students call him – sits on his desk and wanders around in front of flickering slides, and Michael takes notes. Then he pauses. Looks out the windows.

Everything is still gray, and Lindsay’s words are still in his head. _Is_ he being watched?  Looking around the room, he sees nobody he knows or who could possibly have a reason to observe him intently. He keeps mostly to himself, and although he supposes most people know about some loud guy, Michael Jones, who once swore at this-and-that important person, he doesn’t have _enemies._

Even so, he feels a chill down his spine and a strange sense of unease as he watches the minutes go by. His fingers tap against the desk.

“Now, you’ve got to mess with the code, experiment, really get into it… We’re going to be working with this subject for a little while longer.”

The restlessness intensifies slowly but surely as Michael listens to Burnie’s words. He doodles in the margin of his notes and finds himself drawing trees. Dark shadows against yesterday’s sky, a stick-figure silhouette between them. He rubs his eyes.

Lindsay just made him a bit paranoid. It’s not like him to be like that, and it’ll pass, he reminds himself.

When the lecture ends and he picks up his bag, he can’t help but hold it tightly in his hands. He steps out into a crowded hallway, but the feeling of being watched does not lessen even though nobody could possibly follow him here. He makes his way through a sea of faces until he reaches the double doors that lead outside, pausing before them.

The rain has come.

The drum of the drops hitting the roof is almost inaudible with all the voices and footsteps obscuring it, but Michael can see it through the glass in the doors. He takes a deep breath before pushing them open.

He has nothing to protect himself with, so he is soaked almost immediately as he makes it down to the broad stone stairs. He walks in between the puddles that start to form on the asphalt, feeling the water against his face. It is at once a relief and an annoyance as he hurries towards the library.

Then he stops dead in his tracks. There is no crowd around him now; they have all turned left or right and he alone went straight ahead, through the almost-park, almost bumping into the strange man from the woods.

Michael takes a step back.

The stranger doesn’t. He, too, looks soaked. Water clings to his hair and to his sadly drooping moustache. Still, his eyes are focused and he does not seem to be bothered by the weather at all. His hands are holding something out in front of him, and in the moment where Michael just stands there he manages to catch only a glimpse of the object. It looks to him like something one might find in a bird’s nest, a little construction of twigs and string.

The man does not look at the thing in his hands.

He looks, as always, straight at Michael who does not know what to say. There are a lot of questions in his head, but he considers not asking any at all – just leaving again. Yet something tells him that that will only postpone the meeting, for there is nothing but clear purpose in the man’s eyes.

“Your name is Michael, isn’t it? You... met me yesterday.” 

His voice is different from what Michael had expected; not as deep and commanding as he had feared, not as feeble and detached as he had hoped. He sounds like a man in control of himself, not caught in the throes of insanity. But there is a more pressing matter:

“How the hell do you know my name?”

The man shrugs. “It’s not as hard to find as you’d think it is.”

“Okay, next question: What is it you want from me?”

The man looks almost hurt by this, pocketing the object and raising his empty palms in a gesture of apology. “Look, I just need to talk to you real quick, Michael. I can see the look on your face, but I promise I’m not an… axe murderer or something.”

“Yeah, you don’t seem sketchy at all.” Michael exhales, turning towards the library. “I’m sorry I interrupted whatever the hell you were doing out there, ok? Let’s just get on with our lives.”

“Come on.” The stranger locks eyes with Michael, his expression strangely friendly – “You don’t mean that, do you? You’re curious.”

Michael shrugs. "About what?"

“You don’t know anything about covens, do you?”

_Okay, now it’s straight back to crazy-talk._

“You sound absolutely insane,” Michael says. He pauses, again glancing to the little eyes of the library windows. “Just tell me what I am apparently dying to know so you can get going.”

“Not here. Can we find somewhere more… private?”

Michael crosses his arms. “No. We’re doing this out in plain sight. I’m not going anywhere with you.”

Michael watches the tattoos twist as the stranger's muscles tense. They are different up close. Strange symbols, large dark swirls of ink. The man sighs at last and leads Michael over behind a grey, sad excuse for a tree where they find at least a bit of cover from the rain. Drops still land on his shoulders, making his t-shirt hang wet and heavy on his body. It is not the same one from yesterday, but it’s not in much better condition, Michael notes.

“First of all,” the man says, “I’m Geoff. Geoff Ramsey. Secondly, what I was doing out in the woods yesterday was magic.”

Michael can’t help himself. He snorts, tries to hold it in, but begins laughing uncontrollably, all the tension from being watched and feeling threatened leaving him. This is too silly; this, he can’t deal with. He manages to bark out a,“Seriously?” 

But Geoff’s face remains still. Nothing about what he said was a joke. “Seriously.”

“What the fuck, dude,” Michael says, “You should go get your head checked out. I have places to go now, ok?”

“The place I was sitting was _warded_ , Michael. No ordinary people could find it. But _you did_. You wandered in there-“

“Maybe you just had shitty wards. Or _maybe_ magic – big fucking maybe, I know – maybe magic isn’t real!”

“Or maybe you’ve got a Gift,” Geoff says, staring Michael straight in the eye.

“Yeah, no.”

“Come on, Michael. You’ve been sensing me all day, haven’t you? Chills down your spine? Weird sensations?”

“It’s none of your business.” Michael starts walking. He doesn’t care that the rain suddenly hits him with twice the force now that the tree no longer take the blunt of it.

“It IS my business,” Geoff insists, following behind him, voice growing frantic. “I found you with magic – scrying and this little amulet here, because I have a Gift too, and that’s what you felt. You can pass by wards, you feel magic – you have things to learn about this!”

“And that’s what you teach, is it? I’m about to get into fucking Hogwarts?” Michael does his best to keep down his voice because he doesn'tt want to make this a scene, but it gets harder and harder. The bitter taste is back in his mouth.

Geoff looks exasperated. “No, Michael, for fuck’s sake, just listen to me.”

“You’re a lunatic.”

“You’re being an asshole. Look, just give me one second-“  
  
Michael turns towards him, accepting that he can’t outrun the guy. “One.”

Geoff takes a deep breath before he speaks.

“There’s about five of us that I know of around these parts, yeah? Magic is rare, so you have to stick together. I – we- could teach you. So you don’t end up all alone, feeling like something’s missing for the rest of your life. So you don’t end up hurting yourself. So that you don’t hurt anybody _else_.”

Michael wants to go. He knows that the man is insane, but there is some kind of meaning in his words that Michael can’t quite disregard. He knows the restlessness he hears in the man’s voice. He doesn’t act, but Geoff takes that as encouragement to continue. Michael just listens.

“Let me guess. You seek out nature – all the wild places, the woods – when you’re emotional. You can’t contain yourself sometimes. And even though nothing weird happened Harry-Potter-style, no exploding aunts or flying cutlery or anything, you’ve had… things happen, yeah? Small stuff. Finding lost things a bit faster than everyone else. You’ve got good intuition. Sometimes you feel drawn to certain people.” He lowers his voice and takes a single step forward. “Like me.”

Is he drawn to Geoff? Michael looks up and down the man, taking everything in up close now. He’s getting soaked and cold just like Michael himself, and there’s sincerity in his voice. He’s not normal, that’s for sure, and okay, maybe Michael feels… fascination. In a train wreck way, but still.

“Show me,” Michael whispers. It comes out almost ruined by his chapped lips and the sound of the rain, but Geoff understands. “Prove it.”

“If finding you in the middle of this place isn’t proof enough,” Geoff says, making a sweeping gesture at the campus, “I guess I can show you a little thing. But magic isn’t just wands or words, it’s longer, it’s… slow.”

“Just… do it. And I know when I see sleight of hand street magic, so don’t try to pull that.” Michael hopes Geoff can’t tell when he lies. He watches the other man’s expression, because if Geoff is just a fraud he should be a bit unnerved, at least, but his expression does not change.

“Let’s see what we have to work with,” he mutters. He looks around them, eyes on the ground and his fingers twirling the point of his moustache. He looks almost comical, especially when he suddenly picks up a tiny acorn and studies it as if it was a rough diamond. He stands up again and shows Michael the seed in his palm. “Now look,” he instructs.

Geoff makes a fist around the acorn and closes his eyes. Michael can see Geoff’s lips move, but he can’t discern any words. It isn’t a language he knows. His attention shifts to Geoff’s hand.

Something magical is happening. Michael doesn’t know what else to think. He hears the words, but he feels them just as much. Something in his body lurches suddenly forward, something breaks and something gives. The acorn has sprouted - a multitude of small green growths pry their way out between Geoff’s fingers, spiraling up his arm, falling into the patterns of his tattoos. Geoff sighs softly as he stops intoning the strange spell, opening his hand.

In his palm rests a small plant, out of season, out of sense.

It is verdantly green, fragile, real. Little drops of ranwater clings to the edges. 

Michael reaches out for it and touches the leaves, the juncture where it sprouts from the shell of the acorn.

“Believe me now?” Geoff asks.

“What the hell…” Michael mutters. “I could do that?”

“In time, yeah.” As if he hadn’t just done something Michael had considered impossible a minute ago, Geoff lets go of the sprout and brushes the dirt nonchalantly off of his hands. A moment later and he has found a piece of paper and a pencil somewhere in a pocket, and he scrawls something on it. “Here,” he says, handing the paper to Michael.

Michael stares at the address before he folds it, tucking it into his pocket. “Is that your home or your murder shack…?” Although the accusations are the same, Michael’s voice makes it clear that he’s only kidding now. 

“It’s _a_ home. I dunno. Mostly it’s my house, but there are these other people over so often I don’t even know if it’s really mine anymore.” The thought apparently makes Geoff smile. It’s not a bad look on him at all, Michael realizes, all the tiredness suddenly gone for a moment. “Anyway, we call ourselves a coven, but really it’s just me and four more guys and occasionally a couple people from out of town. We _try_ to meet Sunday, but really people are always just dropping in and out so… I guess I’m saying ‘come whenever you like’ but Sunday is probably best.”

“That’s a lot of stuff all at once.”

Geoff shrugs. “But I’ll see you around?”

Michael takes a deep breath. He wonders why this feel so easy, why it doesn’t feel like a bad decision. He does not know this person who believes in magic which is, apparently, a thing that exists except there is also the possibility that Michael is just gullible but… There’s a pause where the only sound is that of the rain, and he can see Geoff looking all tense.

“Yes,” Michael finally says. “I’ll come. Sure.”

“Then I’ll… I’ll leave you be.” His purpose gone, Geoff drops the eye contact between them, rubbing his neck as he backs away. “I should be going, right?”

“…Right.”

Michael watches as Geoff staggers away. He doesn’t turn around until he’s almost walking into a tree, still casting glances in Michael’s direction. Michael starts moving towards the library again, trying not to notice that Geoff hangs around a bit too long in the periphery of his view.

Such a strange guy, Michael thinks.

As soon as he’s inside the library and the heavy doors shut behind him, the episode starts to feel like a dream. A man making plants grow with a little chanting. Michael having magical powers. He’s pretty sure there’s a book with that exact premise somewhere on the shelves he passes by as he makes his way to the second floor, leaving a small river of rainwater droplets in his wake. The sound of the weather is dull, now.

He finds Lindsay and Kerry sitting together by a table, lit by the warm golden glow of the library’s lamps. Books are strewn around them on the dark brown table, amber titles on wine-red bindings. Lindsay raises an eyebrow as Michael takes the seat opposite her.

Kerry mumbles a “hey” from behind his computer, glancing up to send Michael a smile before returning to his work.

Lindsay leans forward over the table, resting her chin in her hand. “So?”

“So what?” Michael places his own books and his disorganized stack of notes on the table, spreading them out without looking at Lindsay.

“What kept you?”

“Oh.” Michael shrugs. “Class.”

He still doesn’t look up – he knows Lindsay can tell when he lies.

“You were talking to someone. He must’ve been real interesting since you got so _drenched_.”

Well, Michael can’t argue with that. Even as he zips up his bag, he drips onto the floor. His heart beats a little quicker because Lindsay knows already. “How’d you-“

“There are windows in this place,” Lindsay says dryly. She points behind Michael, and when he turns around, he can see the tree where he and Geoff spoke through the dirty glass. “Do I know him or…?”

“Nah. He’s just…” Michael licks his lips. _I met him out in the middle of the woods. He’s got magic powers and he wants me in his cult._ “A friend of a friend,” he says instead.

“Wow, I didn’t know you had other friends than us,” Kerry says.

“Like you’re one to talk,” Michael replies, but none of them take it seriously – Kerry snickers behind his screen. “I should get started on this essay-“

Michael sighs softly as he is interrupted by Lindsay again.

“What did you talk about?” she asks.

“Why do you care?”

“I don’t know.” Lindsay shrugs, tapping the end of her pencil against her lips. “I just wonder what you’re doing. And he looked weird. Tattoos and all.” _Tap, tap, tap._ “Is he hot?”

“Lindsay, he’s like a million years old,” Michael says, exasperated, and Lindsay giggles. Michael tries to put himself in a girl’s shoes, recalling Geoff’s face. Had he been pretty, really? Maybe you could find something attractive under the haven’t-slept-in-four-days look, something to do with the tattoos or his hands, but... His final verdicts is a simple, “I guess, if you’re into that.”

“…Did you just spend five minutes daydreaming about his pink lips?” Lindsay teases. “Maybe that’s your solution to this whole jobless-situation.”

“You lost your job?” Kerry interjects.

“Yes, he did,” Lindsay says, “And now he’s found himself a sugar daddy instead.”

Kerry nods sagely. “Of course, of course.”

“Fuck you,” Michael says, unable to suppress a smile as he finally opens his book.


	2. Better Decisions(?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Conversations, combustion and gaudy sunglasses, all in one Sunday afternoon.
> 
> I can't decide if the way I write text messages are too obnoxious/hard to understand, so feedback is as always appreciated. There are some very long text conversations coming up...

Only when Michael comes home does the realization begin to dawn on him.

One thought fills him like a cloud sweeping in, swallowing the sun. It comes creeping into his head as he hangs his coat and makes his coffee - In the minutes waiting, idle, compulsion makes him return to the same questions again and again. He sits down on his cluttered couch to drink while his Xbox turns on, but by the time the main screen of the game is flashing, ready for his input, he is sitting with his head cradled in his hands while the coffee grows cold on the table.

Only now does his brain really, truly try to wrap itself around the fact that _magic seems to be real_. It seems to be the only explanation for the warmth of the acorn and the bright green of the plant. What he saw was real. Michael can not think of any other reason for Geoff’s presence in the woods, either. He _wants_ to accept it, too.

Hasn’t he always felt that there should be something _more_ in the world?

He raises his head slowly, looking down at his palms.

If there _is_ something more in the world, does that mean that there’s more in _him_? Does it crawl through his veins and swim through his flesh and force itself in and out of his shifting cells?

Even though Geoff has this ability, it doesn't mean that Michael has it too. Maybe Geoff is wrong and his wards were bad somehow. After all, who is Michael to think he’s unusual? He has never been special before. He tries to remember if he has ever done something that he could ascribe to some supernatural ability, but nothing comes to mind. _Good intuition_ once or twice. Occasionally a feeling of dread before something bad happened. Sometimes the opposite: unexplained elation for which the source would only present itself later. Those things, of course, prove nothing.

As he flexes his fingers, he becomes suddenly enthralled by the play of the light along the planes of his palms. 

Closing his eyes, he breathes deeply.

He feels silly, sitting there half expecting something to happen. Maybe light could spring from his fingertips.

He opens his eyes and smiles at himself – maybe. Probably not.

He reaches for the cup again, taking a long sip of lukewarm coffee.

Would he be bothered if all of this turned out to be nothing? If Geoff had just made a mistake and Michael would be turned away at the door -  _Sorry, you aren’t the comic book protagonist we’re looking for?_  

He presses his skin against the hot cup.

 _Well_ , he thinks, _if that’s the case let’s say fuck ‘em and leave. It’s probably all more trouble than it’s worth._

With that thought, he reaches for the controller and presses start. Loses himself in color, resolution, noise. It’s better than losing yourself in thought. 

* * *

 

In the morning, he halfheartedly rinses the empty coffee mug from last night in the sink before leaving. The notes from yesterday in the bottom of his backpack give him confidence, and as he arrives at campus, he has almost made himself believe that today is going to be a good day.

The air is light and crisp as the leaves under his boots. The clouds are few and far between, light against the blue sky. He is almost sad to go inside where the chatter and wind is replaced with loud, echoing sounds: footsteps, slamming doors, echoing beeping from a source he can never quite place. The surfaces around him turn metallic, the colors almost garish compared to the subtle shades of nature and the lawn outside. He pushes open a rust-colored door and walks into a room of grey and white.

His classmates are a sea of slogans and meaningless phrases printed in bold on worn t-shirts and jerseys, but he supposes he blends in well. He takes a seat in the back and stares down towards the blackboard where specks of white chalk dust seem like stars to him.

While he is supposed to be listening to the lecture, he imagines the constellations that might connect them. It is an idle thought, a daydream, and in the end he jots them down in his notebook. He has never been good at drawing, but these patterns are just lines and dots, black on white; a sudden impulse makes him turn a few straight lines into curves, twisting them into spirals and patterns.

Some of it is random. Some of it is patterns from a man’s skin.

He can’t remember all the tattoos exactly, so the drawing that ends up filling the margin of his notes is nothing but a rough approximation. 

 

The pause has its own distractions. Tomorrow sneaks into his mind with its threat and wonder, and he ends up reading articles with names like “ _How to identify a cult_ ”, “ _Black Magic_ ” and “ _Top 10 Weird Cults_ ”. He almost snickers at webpages with black pentagram cursors and repeating, nauseating backgrounds, but there are still a few sentences that he tucks away for later.

 

He has lunch with the same people that he always depends on – Lindsay to his right, Caleb, Kdin. Kerry is busy with something or other, but that’s fine. What matters is that there is always _someone_. Michael is never alone enough for anyone to notice. He likes being surrounded by others and the way his shoulders knock against someone else’s when they all sit around the same table. He likes telling stories with them, but today he is not the one speaking.

“…And that’s when I noticed the cat was gone,” Caleb declares.

“And it was your cat?” Lindsay asks, her voice tinged with pure concern.

“No. I’m – I was watching it for a friend of a friend, right, which just makes it _worse_.”

“I thought I’d remember if you had a cat.” Lindsay smiles. “You’d never be free of me.”

“This isn’t something to smile about,” Caleb says. He takes another bite out of his sandwich and keeps talking with food in his mouth. His fork stabs the air again and again as he gesticulates. “I found it yesterday night. It was dead.”

Lindsay’s hand darts to her mouth. Michael straightens his back, a shiver running down his spine as Caleb continues.

“It was all… I don’t know what could make a cat look like that. It had been cut up, bottom to top. And it was dry, like it had bled out. Just… no more blood in it. Parts of the fur was torn off - not shaved, not even skinned, it was just all _raw_ …” He looks like he’s unable to swallow the next bite, having grown a little pale.

“Jesus,” Michael says. “That’s rough. Who'd be sick enough to _do that_?”

“And when can I beat him up with a baseball bat?” Lindsay adds.

“Don’t know.” Caleb looks away. “I don’t know. It was laying in the park, the one ten minutes from my house. The ground had been dug up. Like someone had been trying to dig it a grave and then just…” He shakes his head.

Around them everyone else is still speaking. The air buzzes with the rise and fall of words. 

“Fuck,” Lindsay mutters.

Michael turns away from her for a moment to throw his empty soda can towards a trash can two meters or so away.

He misses by an inch, and he hears a dejected “Too bad” from Lindsay as he goes to retrieve it. He realizes that he’s been holding his breath for a while. 

* * *

Saturday: assignments and waiting. Wandering around an apartment letting the hours pass by in a way that gives a certain sense of tranquility. Minutes and seconds tick by and die, cascading away from utterly indifferent clocks. Michael sleeps until noon and goes to bed a little too late.

Dreams of nothing.

* * *

 

Sunday comes around before Michael feels properly prepared for it. A bout of nervous self-doubt comes, as per usual, when he is in his car. He has to remind himself that what he saw was real. That magic might be real, that that experience was why he is daring to trust Geoff and seek out him and his people, whoever they are.

 _You’ve always wanted the world_ , says a little voice inside his head. _Of course you’d believe the first guy who told you that you were special, no matter how outrageous the claim._

Michael bites the inside of his cheek as he drives. The taste of iron spreads through his mouth, but it doesn’t feel real. It is as intangible as the exhaust hanging overhead. Like the people he drives by, faceless. As he passes by these blurry families and figures on the streets, unable to discern any features in the second they are in view, he grows unnerved. By the time he finds the address, even his skin feels awkward.

He supposes it’s more because of the neighborhood than anything else. It isn’t perfectly suburban, but it is a bit too close for comfort. Michael doesn't live surrounded by grass and fences; his daily life is asphalt, streets and public transport. He cannot see himself settling down somewhere like this, ever. All the houses are small one- or two-story buildings, row after row after row. Michael can see far more of the sky than at his own home, but it does not make him at ease. Even though he probably isn’t anywhere remotely close to the idyllic American dream of manicured lawns and perfect straight hedges, it still seems like a sitcom kind of place to an inner-city kid. Not exactly somewhere Michael would have said anything supernatural was going on. The confusion makes him study the houses more closely, but nothing seems out of the ordinary.

That is, until he reaches Geoff’s house.

It is constructed of dark brick and light tiles. The windows are small, staring suspiciously out at the world and the unkempt front yard where there somehow still seems to be some method to the madness of weeds and overgrown flower beds. Under a tree bent over by age, the thistles and abandoned wild roses push their thorns into one another. Michael places a hand on the bark and feels the lines carved into the tree, remembering the sigils in the woods before he is even conscious of what it is he has touched.

He withdraws his hand and continues his exploration.

Soon he has found his way to the entrance, staring down the door. The small glass pane betrays nothing of what lies inside. The handle is cold in Michael’s hand. He lets go, slowly, and opts to knock instead, not wanting to be impolite even though he has no reason to suspect that these people are worth his rare politeness.

The knock seems to echo all the way down the street. Michael imagines mothers locking their doors at the sound, looking to their children, worrying that another young man is going to walk into number 17 and go missing.

He looks forward to finally _knowing_ so his imagination will give him a rest.

When the door opens, taking Michael aback, it isn’t Geoff.

It is a young man, probably Michael’s age, with sandy, messy hair and a can of beer in his hand. He looks confusedly at Michael, then back over his shoulder, further into the house where all Michael can see is shadow. Usually, this would be the point where Michael says that he must have gotten the wrong place and tries to excuse himself, but this time his gut makes him stay. He _knows_ this is the place. As he stands there on the doorstep, pure certainty washes over him.

“Hey!” the stranger yells, turning back into the house, “I think it’s the new one!”

Michael furrows his brows – he is reminded of high school name-calling. Then again, the man in front of him has something decidedly young and immature about him as he gestures lazily for Michael to come inside. His eyes stay with Michael, watching him as he steps into the small hallway, hooks his fingers into his shoes and takes them off.

He supposes the living room must be just beyond the door. He can hear talking - loud, almost yelling. Arguing?

“-So what I'm saying is that that’s the last time I’m using one of your spells, Ryan. It took me four _hours_ to set it all up because there were so many sigils and they had to be drawn in like, oil and cow blood-“

A different, deeper voice responds. Michael stands awkwardly still as he listens.

“ _I_ wasn’t the one who came up with it!  You have to respect that things take _time_ –“

“It didn’t even work,” the first voice continues, “If you haven’t noticed I still have soot everywhere.”

“Hey, I made it work for me-“

The man in front of Michael looks impatient, bouncing on his feet as he waits for Michael to focus. To take of his jacket and find some space for it in between five others. Michael glances at the different fabrics, cloth and dark leather, wondering who the jackets belong to.

“Nervous?” the man asks. His tone is friendly, but still Michael waits a moment before answering.

“No,” he says. “Just seriously wondering what I’m headed into.”

“I get it.” The man smiles, and it almost catches Michael off guard. It seems honest, like he’s just happy to see Michael. “The name’s Gavin. Gavin Free.”

“Michael Jones.”

Gavin nods towards the door. “Coming?”

It’s easier to open this door. Gavin puts his hand lightly on Michael’s shoulder, and he does not shy away from the touch. It seems right.

The hand remains there while Michael takes in the living room. It takes him a while to make out the shapes - the blinders are shut, and a half-dark lies coiled around the edges of the room, around the furniture and the people sitting on the couches. The coven is gathered around a coffee table. They do not recline or rest; at Michael’s entrance everyone freezes in place halfway standing, arms wide in the middle of sweeping gestures. Smoke curls through the air, blue and grey like that of cigarettes. Michael inhales the scent of incense and sandal wood.

The atmosphere settles in his lungs and remains inside him.

On the table is a low basin filled with still water. Small objects with no discernible purpose – sticks, stones, wax and ink – lie scattered about. Michael is a bit happier when he also sees beer and snacks there, a beacon of normalcy.

Gavin leaves to squeeze in between a couch and an arm chair where he sits down between two other men. All in all, there are four strangers excluding the almost-stranger Gavin - and Geoff. Michael takes a step towards them. Towards the blue light and the smoke and the low voices that come to hoarse stops when they notice his presence.

Geoff is different here. In daylight he seemed strange, either foolish or malicious, but in here none of that remains. He sits by the end of the table, and the way he sits – fingers steepled, legs crossed – makes it clear that he fashions himself a leader. In the half-dark, the bags under his eyes make him look older in a better way. Before they only made Michael think of how little sleep Geoff got, but now they make him think about _why_ , offering a glimpse into nights spent pondering arcane secrets, dusty books, untold stories.

Looking away from Geoff, the very air makes Michael’s skin prickle. He feels a sense he might have ignored before flare up in full – it is as if the room is the middle of a stormy sea and many waves hit him from all directions. From each person in attendance, a certain emotion, a certain _feeling_ seems to emanate, and Michael glances at each of them. Their faces are foreign, but he feels deep solidarity all the same. If that was what Geoff felt as they met, Michael can’t fault him for coming off as over-eager.

“That’s Michael,” Geoff says, assuring that if Michael didn’t feel like the center of attention before, he certainly does now. Gavin smiles again, and one of the men lazily raises a hand in greeting. Michael catches himself staring, for as the man moves a flash of light reveals that his face is covered in paint, patterns extending from his brow to his chin.

Geoff draws his attention again. “You don’t know any of the others, do you?”

“No,” Michael answers. “Don’t think so.”

“Well,” Geoff begins, gesturing towards the person sitting closest to him on the couch to his right, “That’s Jack.”

The man, bearded and large and wearing an unflattering shirt, looks like a pretty average guy to Michael. Maybe someone’s dad. He has a large mug in his large hands, and his eyes seem friendly as they find Michael’s.

“Then there’s Haywood – Ryan Haywood, don’t ask about the facepaint…”

The man from before smiles, leaning forward to take a can from the table. Michael wants to know why he’s painted like he is – red and black, dark around the eyes with something like stitches across his thin lips - and why his hands have so many little red gashes on them as he opens the can. His voice is deep when he speaks.

“Nice to meet you,” Ryan says, raising the diet coke to something like a toast before drinking.

“And on couch two we have Gavin, the little British shit,” Geoff continues, ignoring Gavin’s huff of indignation and the way Michael pauses, filing that little bit of information away. “And Ray.”

Ray is wearing a deep purple hoodie, and in the low light he blends in well with the dark and the couch. He adjusts his glasses and leans forward, looking at Michael. He balances a large book on his lap. His look isn’t as friendly as the others – instead he looks confused.

“Michael?” he asks. “Sorry, but what’s your gamertag?”

Jack raises his voice. “Ray, let the poor guy be for a moment before you try to talk about vid-”

“No,” Michael interrupts him. “I know that voice!”

Ray stands up, suddenly animated – “Mogar?” he asks. “Really? Mogar?”

Michael can’t suppress a smile. He takes a few steps to reach Ray and receives a high-five. “Nice to meet you too, _BrownMan_ ,” he says, and he is only vaguely aware of the glances the others are giving them.

Geoff clears his throat. “So at least you know each other.”

“This is the end of a long-ass long distance relationship,” Ray declares. “If he is half as chill to do magic with as he is to shoot terrorists with, then I won’t need any of you anymore.”

“Says the man who couldn’t manage to do a simple ward without having it blow up in his face,” Ryan says dryly.

“I did that with Gavin,” Ray says, “It was mostly his fault.”

“You were the one who decided to add a little extra ‘flair’ to make it more effective,” Gavin protests.

“Also,” Geoff says, “Why the hell were you two doing wards alone in the first case?” His face softens up as he speaks, turning to Ray. “You could have asked me. “

Ray looks away, glancing first at Gavin, then at Michael who now feels a bit left out.

“I just wanted to make it react a little bit faster if anyone was about to trespass-“ Ray begins, but he is cut off by Geoff.

“ _Old_ magic,” he says, “Isn’t meant to be optimized, Ray. No matter how good you are at it-”

Finally, Michael raises his hands. Whatever intimidating effect the place and people might have had on him has disappeared in the bickering, and the fact that he knows Ray only makes everything easier. “I’m lost,” he says. “Remember that I _just_ found out about all this shit.”

Gavin and Ray both sit down as the heated tempers cool, Ray moving aside to let Michael have a seat. The couch is soft and worn.

Geoff looks at each man, seemingly at a loss for what to do. “I’m not really sure if I should give the speech or not.”

“Don’t give the speech please,” Gavin mutters.

“Yeah, maybe the speech is a bit over the top,” Ryan says. “Maybe I could try and ease it along?”

“I’m the head of this… coven,” Geoff says in something like weak protest.

“What the hell is a coven?” asks Michael.

The others exchange looks, and at last the consensus seems to be that Jack should be the one answering.

“People with gifts have met in groups since forever,” he says with a shrug of his shoulders. “Some people call them covens. There are a bunch of names and not really that much communication between people like us in general, and Geoff liked that term, so we used it.”

“He likes old stuff,” Ray interjects. “Runes and sigils. The celts.”

Michael looks to Geoff, to the tattoos – are some of them magical? He wants to ask later, but now the conversation goes onward and he has to do his best to keep up as Ryan takes over where Jack left off.

“Magic has always been around, just more or less hush-hush. An, uh, the witch trials happened, and then it was _completely_ secret. Still, we try to… To find each other and work together to get better at using these powers.”

“It’s nice,” Gavin says. The sound of a beer can opening speaks for him about what he probably likes the most about these gatherings.

Michael has about a hundred questions burning on his tongue. Information is coming at him from all directions, making him think slowly and making the first question out of his mouth, “So what magic isn’t bullshit?”

“What do you mean?” Ryan asks.

“I mean, nobody’s making rabbits pop out of hats or being vampires or anything, well? I need to know what… what’s real.”

“Look,” Ray says, leaning in. “It’s a bit much, I get it. And I think-“ he looks up, sending the others something between a glance and a glare “-That I’m the one with the most technical knowledge here, so I’ll try to explain, ok?”

“And I’ll translate that into normal-speak,” Ryan says.

Unfazed by the interruption, Ray continues. “Magic is both a force, an ability you can use, and a gut feeling, right? You can’t suppress or ignore it forever – it wants out, which is why you can end up doing stupid things without knowing it.”

“If you don't channel it into something productive, like we do,” Ryan adds.

“Like we do,” Ray repeats, mocking Ryan’s tone, “Always productive. Because we are such responsible individuals.” He clears his throat before continuing. “You can channel it in a lot of different ways. You can be like Geoff, who has a boner for all things old-fashioned and carves magic sigils and runes everywhere because he hates trees.” He tips the can of soda in his hand towards Geoff, who smiles as if given a compliment. Michael waits for Ray to speak again, still unable to really cope with the fact that the man he’s been chatting with online is now lecturing him about magic.

“You’ve got alchemy – that’s Jack for you – and then you’ve got ritualized pain-in-the-ass magic like Haywood.”

“And you?” Michael asks.

“Ray ‘improves’ other people’s spells,” Ryan says.

“Aw, seriously – air quotes?” Ray asks. “It’s a discipline. It’s meta-magic. It’s like speed-running for spells.”

“I cannot believe those words came out of your mouth,” Geoff says.

“You know you appreciate it,” Ray says. “Anyway, you don’t need a lot of ritualistic stuff all the time. A feeling is enough, which is great if you’re like Gavin here and like screwing with everything uncontrollably all the time.”

There’s silence for a moment, all of them at a loss for what else to say.

“Where do I start then?” Michael says.

“Well,” Geoff says, shifting in his chair, “We can find out if you want. What do we got that’s basic?”

“I got something,” Gavin says. He stands up, leaving to retrieve something from the hallway and returns a moment later with a pair of gold-shining, thick-rimmed sunglasses in his hand. When he lays them on the table Michael notices that there are large cracks in the dark brown glass. “From the failed ward,” he explains. “It threw me right into a wall.”

“Were you planning to _blow up_ the poor sod who trespassed onto your property?” Geoff asks.

“Well,” Ray says meekly, “It’d scare him, at least. It was just a bit too effective. And it went off at the wrong time when Gavin somehow triggered it.”

“Isn’t there supposed to be some kind of code?” Michael asks. “About, like, not hurting others?”  
  
Ryan squirms in his seat.

Gavin looks away.

Ray shrugs.

Geoff takes another sip of his beer.

Jack nods, not making eye contact.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Geoff says, “Michael, maybe we can make you repair those glasses. Just do what feels natural.”

“You make it sound so easy,” Michael says, a tinge of sarcasm in his voice.

Geoff shrugs. “Maybe it is.”

Slowly, Michael reaches out to touch the glasses, picking them up, running his fingers over the lenses. He feels childish, almost, out of his depth – what now? He thinks about the glass mending. Tries to imagine how the cracks would heal.

Nothing happens.

“Focus,” Geoff says.

“Nothing’s happening,” Michael answers. Of course Geoff forgets that it isn’t as easy for Michael as it is for him. Or maybe Geoff _was_ wrong.

Michael doesn’t even feel _anything_.

Glass, smooth metal. _Fucking fix yourself_ , he demands. His reflection in the dark lenses mocks him. He thinks about the warmth of his anger flowing into his hands and working with the atoms in the object. His will has to matter, right? If he wants it enough…

They're all looking.

Nothing happens.

He sees Geoff reaching out for him, but he seems to lose the courage before Michael puts the glasses back on the table. “Sorry.”

“It’s just a matter of time,” Geoff says. “I mean, we can all feel that Michael has the gift, yeah?”

Michael sees the others nodding, and he clenches his hands on his lap. If Geoff had more to say, it is lost as Ryan draws him over and they start to speak too quietly and quickly for Michael to follow. If they’re talking about him, he doesn’t care enough to try and find out what they are saying. He feel heat building in his tight chest, but he has nowhere to direct his anger. Nowhere but himself. He leans back as if he could disappear into the worn couch cushions.

The conversation draws on, moving on to discussions Michael cannot participate in, but that everyone else seems to understand – should Jack let them try the potion he’s made, what is the best way to track people, can you make a spell that stops the milk from spoiling? Michael is content to sit back in apathy and observe these strange people.

Being there, even just observing, probably makes him strange too.

He feels someone grip his shoulder tightly. Gavin again.

“So,” he says. “Not off to a great start then?”

Michael just _looks_ at him.

“Doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter,” Gavin chatters, “You’ll get there.” His hands are never at rest, tapping and snapping and drumming on the table, on beer cans, on his knees; Michael wonders what sparks they might conjure.

Suddenly, Gavin stands up, almost elbowing Ryan in the face.

“I’m hungry,” he declares. “Geoff, what do you have for us?”

“Uh…” is all Geoff manages to say before Gavin, already on his way into the kitchen, cuts him off.

“Dosen’t matter, I’ll figure it out.” He turns to Michael, taking his hand and pulling him along – “Come on now, Michael!”

The name sounds different in his mouth.

The kitchen is lighter than the rest of the house, yellow-bright and a bit empty by Michael’s standards. The lack of clutter seems to be less from cleanliness and more because of a general lack of food. Michael glances at the well-stocked shelf of liquor.

“He’s like that,” Gavin explains. He opens the fridge, mulling over the contents and finally withdrawing a few Tupperware containers, the insides brown and red. For a moment, Michael’s mind wanders to disgusting remains – bodily fluids or god-knows-what – but Geoff’s voice cuts through the noise in the living room and loudly assures him that it’s just broth and soup.

Gavin blinks at Michael before he begins rummaging through the closets, finding pans and pots with ease. “We’re just going to heat it,” he says.

“I didn’t realize dinner was a part of the deal,” Michael says.

“It’s a good part.” Gavin stares down a basket in the corner of the room where a few tomatoes seem to languish, unused and far from ripe. He seizes two with incredible determination, showing them to Michael. “Now watch! _Weorth!_ ”

He places the fruits onto the kitchen desk before leaning over them, and Michael walks over to stand beside him. Gavin’s hands weave circles above the tomatoes, and the glimmer in his eye when he looks at Michael gives the impression that it is partly for show. Then Gavin touches the first tomato with his index finger, and a look of intense concentration passes over his face. He draws a simple sign of some kind on its skin. Two strokes - then it does not take more than a second before the fruit ripens. As if time was rewound, brown and black stains revert to red, and with a last flourish, moisture condenses to run down the surface in heavy droplets.

Gavin sighs softly and looks at Michael, practically begging to be appreciated.

“Nice,” Michael says, and Gavin shrugs as if it was nothing. “Does that… come in handy often?”

“Sometimes. But you have to be careful about the where and when. That’s what I think is wonderful about this,” Gavin says, and he gestures with open arms to the room, the house, the gathering of people – “Everywhere else, you need to be careful. Can’t let someone find out, can I? But in here, I can do whatever. You, too.”

“If I ever get the ability,” Michael says, leaning back against the counter. The edge digs into his lower back. It is surprisingly easy to have a conversation with Gavin – maybe because Gavin doesn’t mind speaking for both of them.

“It’s going to be so nice,” Gavin chirps, fetching a knife and spinning it once in his hand before starting to slice the tomatoes.

“Careful with that,” Michael says,”…What do you mean?”

“Well – Geoff and Jack both figured their gifts out together, years before I was even in this country, yeah? Self-taught, mostly. They all are, except for Ryan… I think he had part in some other coven somewhere south. Ray was self-taught, too, but alone. By the time we found him he had very little left to learn even though he didn’t know a lot about the, um, community at large.”

“You?”

“I was a right mess. Didn’t know left from right in a spell. Didn’t even know why time kept being all screwy around me before Geoff found me and taught me how to not do dumb stuff on accident.” He looks up from the cutting board. ”Maybe it’ll be like having an apprentice around. I’m not going to be the most inexperienced – no offence – Geoff’s finally gonna have someone he can teach from the very bottom up…”

“He likes teaching?” Michael asks. He can’t imagine Geoff being patient. Standing in front of a blackboard.

“I think he wants to have someone to pass things on to.” Gavin looks thoughtfully at the pan. “He can seem a little bit lonely sometimes. Which is why I come around often.”

“It looks to me like you’re just eating his food.”

Gavin snorts. “That too. But at least I help him cook it.”

“For a certain definition of cook.”

Though Michael wonders every once in a while if he is crossing the line, Gavin cheerfully answers each teasing comment with one of his own. The food starts to smell wonderful, but as Gavin gets more and more engrossed in it, Michael withdraws from the kitchen.

Back in the living room, the shadows are slowly retreating: The blinders have been opened to let stripes of bright yellow scatter over bodies and faces.

“Want to try again?” Geoff asks.

Michael shrugs.

“We could leave ten minutes. You might find it easier like that.”

“Leave where?” Michael asks.

Geoff just takes a step back, gesturing for Michael to follow. “We’ve got twenty minutes before Gavin is done messing around with the food,” he says, his voice trailing off as he turns his back on Michael. “Down this hall.”

 _Why not._ He’s here already, so he might as well give whatever Geoff has up his sleeve a try. _Why the hell not_.

As he leaves the living room for a small hallway, following Geoff, he realizes just how small the house is – or at least how little of it is used. He passes by the bathroom, glancing in to see a mess of towels and razors in front of a dirty mirror. The next door he passes by is ajar, and behind it is what looks like a tiny guest room, more orderly, but without much of a personal touch. The bed has been slept in recently, though, and Michael wonders if it was Gavin.

Two other doors stand between Geoff and his destination, but he does not spare them a glance. Michael catches a glimpse of the room behind one of them and sees a mess of cardboard boxes and dusty books. A mess that could only have been created through deliberate neglect, through a desire to forget whatever was stored in there.

The final door creaks open, and Geoff waits so that Michael steps in first.

But Michael stops as soon as he sees past the doorstep.

“This is your bedroom,” he states.

Geoff makes it to his bed, which is surprisingly neatly made, and sits down on the floor in front of it so that his back leans against the old, sun-bleached wood. “Yes,” he says, closing his eyes as a sunbeam falls in through the only window in the room. “Feel free to have a seat on the floor.”

Michael steps past a pile of notebooks, a few leaves of paper taking flight and scattering to the floor. “You could at least have cleaned up a little,” he says. When he sits down in front of Geoff, he can still see the height difference between them. He dries his palms on his pants, unsure of when they got so damp.

“Maybe you’re right.” Geoff lays the glasses, still broken, out on the floor between them. “But try not to let that distract you. I know you’ve got it in you, kid.”

Michael picks up the glasses, plastic scraping against glass as he grips the frame bit too tightly. “Don’t call me kid,” he remarks, and that draws a smile from the older man. Michael ignores it. “What now?”

“Try to relax,” Geoff offers.

Relaxing was never Michael’s strong suit. He finds it even harder when someone tells him to do it, because that would be following orders, and that makes him want to rebel. Even now he has to suppress the urge to press his nails into the skin of his fingertips or count the floorboards; anything to stay alert.

“If you think about what you want to do,” Geoff continues, his voice suddenly lower, “Then you should feel… something in your body, right? Usually something… warm?”

“I swear to God, Geoff, you are inches away from sounding so incredibly creepy right now.” Michael can’t even say why he feels so uncomfortable right now. It’s not just that he is in a stranger’s bedroom, staring at Geoff sitting there in his weirdly patterned-socks, nor that that stranger is telling him how to tap into the hidden energies of the universe in a voice that could be described as the vocal equivalent of bedroom eyes. It’s not just that. “Get to the fucking point.”

“The fucking point, Michael, is that you should be able to feel something when you _focus your will_.” 

His will. Well, he wants to think this whole thing over, because everything is going very fast, and he wants to fix these glasses and get back to talking with Gavin maybe, or Ray or-

“Breathe,” Geoff instructs him.

Michael does.

Inhale, exhale.

His eyes unfocus as he watches particles of dust dance in the light. Those are easier to look at than the glasses or Geoff’s expectant, maybe even somewhat disappointed face.

He wants to fix the glasses.

That’s all he needs to think about. There’s something, some warm and hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach, but that’s all he feels.

“I can’t fucking-“ he begins, but then he looks up and sees the way Geoff looks at him. There’s pity – _fuck,_ Michael can’t take that pity – but there’s also care somewhere in behind those tired eyes of his. With speed that Michael had not expected, Geoff reaches out for him.

For a moment, the point of contact where the other man’s hands touches his own become all the Michael notices. Geoff’s fingers rest on his own, his thumbs trace along Michael’s palms.

“Here,” Geoff says, his voice about to crack, “What do you want to happen?”

Michael considers saying something sarcastic, but his tongue swells up in his mouth… And he figures Geoff is really  just trying to help. “Fix the glasses, I guess,” he says instead.

“Think about your - your gut feeling. The tingling in your fingertips. There should be energy here." He squeezes Michael's hands slightly, briefly. "How do you let that out?”

Michael turns the object in his hands. His fingertips _are_ tingling, and he exhales slowly. He can feel Geoff’s rough skin against his own. He knows he’s just being weird about it, but it feels too close and strange to have Geoff almost hold his hands this way.

“Sorry,” he mutters, and he withdraws his hands, watches how Geoff’s hang still in the air, dejected- “I can’t with the touching, alright?”

Geoff scratches the back of his neck, looking away.

Now Michael knows he just made it awkward. His fingers grip tighter around the frame of the glasses, and the plastic and metal is suddenly warm against his skin as he tries to distract himself. He wants this to work. He wants it to be whole. He wants his hands to touch all the surfaces of the object, to make it different… He hears Geoff’s voice, low and deep now, almost a whisper.

“You can try to focus your Gift with a gesture or a word...” Michael sees Geoff’s hands twitch, but they stay put in his lap.

“Gesture,” Michael says, finding it hard to speak all of a sudden. He likes the movements of his hands better than words anyway.

“Try a circle. You're making it whole.”

Michael turns his attention completely to the object and Geoff stops existing.

With the glasses resting in the palm of his left hand, Michael tries to draw a circle above them with the index finger on his right, just like he saw Gavin do it. For a moment he just feels tense and weird, too aware of the scrutinizing eyes on him.

Then he feels heat. Feels it spreading from a tight knot in his chest out to his hands – and now he knows that every time he has _felt_ something, predicted something or followed a hunch, it has been a shadow of this feeling leading him along. He figures that heat might have been mending, might make the glass melt back into shape, if there had been less of it.

Now, there is too much and the glasses turn to dust and heat and smoke between his fingers.

The moment Michael feels the melting plastic and smells the smoke, he drops the glasses, but the damage has been done. The remains clatter to the floor, spreading ash over the floorboards, and Michael pauses, afraid to look up. His heartbeat is wild and irregular: he had, for just a moment, a flame between his hands.

Inhale, exhale.

“So that happened,” Geoff states. “It’s okay. See, Michael? You’ve got the gift same as us.”

“As long as I’m not the one who has to break the news to Gavin.”

“I’ll deal with it,” Geoff says. He groans as he gets up, feet padding over the floor. “Let’s get back to the others.”

Michael follows suit. When he enters the living room again, the air is thick with voices, Gavin participating from the kitchen. Ryan seems to be the only one who noticed their absence, turning around to ask Geoff where he’d been. In response, Geoff whips out the remains of the sunglasses. A third of the frame, embers still glowing.

“Whoa,” Ryan says, “Michael did this?”

“Yeah,” Michael says, answering before Geoff can speak for him. “Not what I wanted to happen. Figures my superpower is burning shit.”

"It's..." Ryan begins, tilting his head, "It's pretty impressive, actually."

Without being prompted, Michael takes a seat next to Ryan and lets himself lean back and sink into the couch. Exhaustion comes unexpectedly fast. He watches passively as Geoff takes pity on Gavin  - "Just this once," he says - and starts moving his hands above the glasses, evidently trying to fix what Michael ruined. Tattooed fingers draw circles and symbols and then, as Geoff draws back and exhales a word - “ _Häl_ ,” soft like a breath - and the glasses turn whole. Nothing moves or glows: it just is.

“Neat,” Michael says, but his own voice sounds distant to him. Geoff sends him a look with his smile more in his eyes than on his mouth, and he seems proud.

Then Ray appears suddenly from Michael’s right and pushes a bowl of chips into his lap. “Hey. Eat something. Laws of physics still apply.”

Michael looks at him quizzically.

“It means you lose energy when you use magic,” Ray explains, “So take in some calories.”

And Michael leans back and, instead of eating, watches Ray’s thin frame and wonders if that is because of excessive magic use. He watches all of them, as they bicker and talk, as Geoff gives the glasses back to Gavin. His stomach still feels too small and tight to accept any food.

 “So that’s Michael,” Geoff declares, “Anyone else got something interesting?”

Ryan raises his hand. “I’m going to get some reagents for a ritual on Monday. Do you need something from the graveyard?”

There are various groans all around, Gavin being the only one of them who follows up with words out from the kitchen – “Why do you always have to make it sound so creepy? You’re not robbing bloody graves!” He pauses. “Are you?”

“Nah. I’m just taking the plants that grow _on_ the graves.”

“I need some soil,” Jack says, “Just a pinch. For growth and keeping death at bay and whatnot. For houseplants.”

“Cool. I want in too. They’re potent as shit and I want to make my next attempt at that warding spell potent as shit, too,” Ray declares, “As long as you get them in the night.”

Ryan nods, and Michael wonders what Ryan needs plants picked from peoples graves for. It’s Gavin who asks before Michael can even open his mouth, and Ryan just tilts his head.

“You’ll see,” he says, “Promise.”

“Again, bloody creepy,” Gavin says. “Food’s ready when you feel like it.”

 

The table in the kitchen is barely big enough to seat all six of them. Ray ends up awkwardly placed by a corner, and Gavin almost constantly elbows Ryan and Jack who sit on either side of him, but the atmosphere is friendly. Cozy, almost. Michael gets the seat at the very end of the table. His appetite makes a triumphant return and with his mouth full, he spends most of his time listening. The subject has changed from magic to mundane, and he answers a few questions about himself as the meal goes on. Age, job (or lack of same), major.

Michael gets to ask his own questions in return as the hours draw on.

“How long have you known each other?”

Gavin answers that he’s known Geoff for three years, while Jack and Geoff apparently go back longer – Ryan and Ray are the newcomers, but even they have attended the small gatherings for months. Yet they draw Michael in, and he feels the waves around him again, all radiant warmth and faded light when he closes his eyes.

“Can I just stop by whenever?”

Geoff says yes, although one should knock and maybe show common courtesy. He glares at Gavin while he speaks. Then he sighs softly and says, “Of course, I can’t stay mad at him.” And Gavin beams.

After twenty minutes Michael's phone beeps. A message from Lindsay. 

_“Where are you?”_

Michael waits before answering, figuring that it'd be bad manners at the table – but when none of the others look like they're going to notice or care, he types a response out anyway.

_"I'm out. Acquaintances.”_

_“have fun."_

_"thanks"_

__"_ I will"_

_“Didn't know you had any other friends though :P"_

Gavin leans over, his presence sudden enough that Michael flinches. “Who're you texting?”

“Nobody,” Michael says, pocketing his phone again. “A friend.”

“We should exchange numbers,” Gavin remarks. “Here, let me get you mine.”

Michael hesitates.

“Yeah, that'd probably be good,” Ryan adds, “In case you're about to burn your house down or something.”

“I think he should call the fire department then,” Ray says dryly.

Slowly Michael hands over his phone, and a second later Gavin gives it back, now with a new contact. _Mister Gavin Free._

“You want mine too?” Ray asks, and Michael nods; might as well. Geoff adds in his number, too, signing it _G_. Then the conversation moves on.

Eventually they all leave except for Geoff and Gavin, who stays around to do the dishes. Michael’s jacket gets handed to him, and he walks out into the cold, dark evening. In the lit kitchen window, Michael can see Gavin starting – the dishes float around, the water soars, and he winks at Michael before drawing the curtains shut. 

Ray tells him that he’ll be online tomorrow; Jack nods at him; Ryan waves with one arm while he uses the other to wipe off the tribal paint. Michael gets only a glimpse of a smear of color on Ryan’s dark jacket before he’s gone.

Then Michael finds himself standing alone and still on Geoff’s front lawn.

He doesn’t feel cold.


	3. Into the Woods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which there is texting and trees.

Michael is halfway through breakfast when the first text message comes. The unexpected tone startles him, making him almost drop his coffee. Hardly a good omen. He can’t tell what Gavin would want at this time of day, but swallowing the bite in his mouth, he opens the message.

 _“Hey Michael”,_ it reads.

Michael writes a quick reply with one hand:

“ _why are you texting me?”_

_“just wanted to say good morning”_

_“and maybe ask what you are up to?”_

_“Morning class. I don’t really have time for this”_

_“I have a job and all but I still have time to write to a friend.”_

Michael can practically imagine the pout on Gavin’s face. He’s surprised at the impression Gavin managed to make – just one day together, and he already feels like he can predict him. The floor is cold against his feet as he pads out into the kitchen and places his bowl in the sink. 

“So,” he writes, “ _We’re_   _friends already?”_

 _“Why shouldn't we be? Ppl like us have to stick together_  "

Michael waits for a moment with his thumb hovering over his phone. He is hesitant to encourage Gavin, but he doesn’t want to push him away either: he has already made up his mind to show up next Sunday.

“I _f you say so”_ he ends up writing.

_“do you take the bus?”_

“ _I walk_ ”

_“do u think u will have time to hang out sometime this week?”_

_“bc I want to and I’m bored”_

His eyes dart to the clock – fifteen minutes until his first class of the day. Mondays are usually bearable, though he can’t tell if this will continue to be the case if Gavin keeps texting him the whole time. He puts on his jacket and packs the last scattered pens into his bag all in a few seconds. The fabric of his jacket has that soft, pliable feeling that only comes through use and age, already warming him. He looks around for his scarf, but is unable to find it – whatever, that can wait. Out the door he goes. And all he's heard about traffic safety and not looking down at your phone while walking around goes out the window.

“ _idk right now_ ”

_"But maybe I'd want to, too"_

_"Just can't say right now"_

 “ _k, but can I at least text you during the day?”_

_“my phone is going to be on silent while I’m in class”_

_“k”_

Michael stares at the single letter and pockets the phone again. When he exhales, his breath forms a gentle mist before him. Only now does he really notice the morning – how clear and cold it is, how the sparse ice crunches under his sneakers.The frost will melt once the sun frees itself from the horizon.  He is not in as big a rush as he probably made Gavin think.

* * *

 

_“hey Michael”_

_"are you in class right now? getting educated?"_

 

“ _I take your silence to mean yes._ "

" _God, I'm so tired its not even funny.”_

_“people are being annoying today :”_

_“got coffee though”_

 

_“do you know how caffeine works?”_

“ _Idk dude.”_

“ _Brain stuff?”_

_“Oh, hey! I know that it works in your brain cells.”_

_“synapses.”_

_“if you had a small brain would you need less caffeine to wake up then? Smaller brained people would get to save money.”_

_“you’re setting yourself up for a joke, gavin”_

_“something something you have a small brain”_

_“I’ll have you know im very smart.”_

_“sometimes”_

_"the last part I believe."_

_“not calling you stupid, but you get it"_

_“anyway, cant you magic yourself awake?”_

_“I tried once!"_

_"...it was not one of those sometimes”_

_“ I was awake for 30 hours straight”_

_“hold on, gotta listen to this part of the lecture”_

_“and afterwards I slept for about the same”_

_“besides, red bull is easier”_

_“Michael?”_

_“:(_  

 “ _Sorry._   _Got busted.”_

_“too bad”_

_“anyway, if we ever hung out I could show you”_

_“maybe it would come in handy for a movie marathon or something”_

_“how many movies do you intend to watch?!”_

_“um”_

_“brb someone else needs my attention.”_

 

As Michael walks out into the hallway, leaving his class, he puts his phone back into his pocket. He cuts through the mass of people moving every which way, no real intent to his wandering. He has to work today – a pile of assignments lie waiting in the back of his brain, casting a shadow over everything else – but he cannot make himself actually head to the library yet. Going home seems strangely unattractive too, and maybe that’s for the best. If he went, he’d end up wasting time. He knows this as surely as fact that the sky is - well, not blue, but a wierd grey shade.  
He misses having a job, just so he’d have something productive and, more importantly, lucrative to do that didn’t involve writing more essays and papers.

So instead of going anywhere, he freezes up by the entrance doors.

Around him, people rush towards  _everything_. Boys and girls and almost men and women all headed to dates or study groups, some to work and others to promising academic careers, and they all have to step around Michael who does nothing but stare at their backs. The constant creak of the doors swinging open again and again, but never quite closing fills his brain until he becomes partway convinced that it is the sound of his own strained breaths. He's getting left behind, a rock in the river of people, and he knows that unlike him, they are all certain that they are going to find a very distant sea. 

His cellphone beeps.

_“Geoff wants you to join him”_

_“For what exactly?”_

_“magic 101 how not to burn urself to death”_

Michael isn’t sure if the twist of his mouth counts as a smile. His fingers hover over the screen of his phone as he raises his head and looks out over the crowd. He has something that sets him apart from all those people. Something many of them probably dreamed of. It remains as so much else about him as mere potential, unused, but it still matters. For some reason, the universe has given him a second chance, a talent – he might as well try to make up for all the other wasted chances here. He might as well write that text and tell Gavin that he’ll be there.

“ _sure,”_ Michael writes, _”Where and when?”_

_“in a secluded forest location”_

_“Ryan can come pick you up in 10 min”_

_“wait what? now?”_

_“ofc you soggy gob”_

_“That is the stupidest thing ive ever been called. but seriously, ryan?”_

_“he’s not as scary as he looks. where are you at?”_

Michael holds his breath for a moment before typing out the address.  _Fuck it_. He can probably handle Haywood, scary as he is.

_“ryan’s on his way!!!”_

There are perhaps a few more exclamation points that Michael himself would have added, but leans back on the cold bench and tries to come to terms with the statement. So on one hand, he just figured out what to do with his afternoon. On the other, it involves a guy in face paint driving him to god-knows-where so a tattooed, mustached man can teach him magic. That could be a set-up for so many strange scenarios. 

What kind of car does a guy like Haywood even own? 

* * *

 A very boring grey one, it turns out. Michael doesn’t even realize that it's there to pick him up before Ryan rolls down a window. Michael walks closer – _look natural_ , he thinks, but he knows that he’s moving just a bit too fast. He sighs in relief when the car door opens and he can step into the shade of the car, out of sight.

The size of the passenger's seat makes him feel smaller, and even though there is space enough at his feet, he elects to sit with his bag in his lap. Ryan having a few centimeters on him doesn’t help, either, especially as the other man stares down at Michael (who studies the interior of the car instead of meeting his glance).

The car tells Michael very little about the other man’s life: there is nothing in the back but a pair of sneakers lying on a seat and a bottle, water sloshing around as Ryan starts the car. Empty cans of Cola Light sit in the door. The radio is on but the volume is turned down so low that Michael can’t hear anything. He considers the thought of Haywood being into country, or listening to those preachy, fundamentalist Christian ramblings on his way to whatever-the-hell he does for work. But so far, he seems pretty average – his taste in radio might as well be too.  As the first noises rise up from the engine, Ryan glances at Michael again.  Like Michael is doing something wrong.

“Why are you staring at me like that?” Michael inquires, his eyes only meeting Ryan’s for the briefest second before darting towards the windows again.

“You forgot your seatbelt,” Ryan states matter-of-factly.

Michael fixes the mistake wordlessly. The seatbelt is a little tight across his chest.

"That's better," Ryan comments. "You've got be safe, right?"

"Right."

As Ryan starts driving, his attention shifts from Michael to the road, and Michael sneaks glances at his bare face. The paint did not conceal much, but Ryan still looks very different without it. Now Michael can imagine him as an ordinary man, maybe with kids, working some IT-job - but apparently he steals from graveyards and works spells.

Never judge a book by its cover, then.

They do not talk while they drive away from the city. Michael feels spent – he has worried a lot these last days, so the uncertainty of this meeting does not bother him as much as it might have a week ago. He resigns himself to waiting, staring out the window. He wishes that he was the one driving, wants that control, the rush he’s gotten by being behind the wheel before, and as Ryan finally takes them completely off the asphalt roads Michael realizes why his thoughts swerved in that direction.

“I’ve been here before."

“Yeah?” Ryan responds. “Do you hike or…?”

“No,” Michael says, and he wants to say more but stops anyway, his thoughts way ahead of his words. With that, Ryan’s attempt at friendly conversation falls to the ground.

Last time Michael drove here, he was angry. He was screaming and kicking, aching to be alone.

These are the same woods where he saw Geoff first.

Ryan seems to know the path, choosing easily between this and that way, avoiding holes in the gravel road. And Michael looks in between the trees, thinking about the circle of stones and the etched wards, wondering if he’ll finally see that place in daylight. He would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about what Geoff had been doing that night.

“Okay then,” Ryan says, clearing his throat. “Geoff and I have been here a couple times before. It’s nice and remote. No disturbances while you work.”

Michael raises an eyebrow. "You _sure_ you're not serial killers?" he jokes. 

“I don’t know what it is that makes people think that," Ryan says, smiling. “There are things in nature you don’t find anywhere else. There’s the quiet. And there are forces you can tap into, and the chance to focus better on yourself or someone you’re working with.”

Michael waits until the car comes to a halt. When he steps out, he is surrounded by mint and olive colors. He wonders if more leaves have appeared during the last days or if the grasses have multiplied and bloomed, for everything seems more vibrant. Is it spring yet? Can’t be. The sight is tinged with sunlight, muted gold filtering down to the forest floor without much opposition. Not many leaves yet.

The light is reflected in the windscreen of another car. This one is a pickup-truck, and Michael glances in through the dark windows, seeing nothing. There is no other explanation for its presence than that this is Geoff's car.

“On we go,” Ryan declares. Having withdrawn a bag from the backseat, he slings it over his shoulder and leads the way. Trees with faded, etched little arrows mark a path that Ryan seems to know better by memory. Michael trots along, barely recognizing the place now that he isn't fueled by rage. Above him the branches move softly in the wind, silhouetted against the white sky. The ground is soft underneath his feet. The air is already better than inside the city.

The only time he recognizes a place is by the small stream he crossed before. Though the way he ran away from Geoff's then-frightening silhouette now feels like something out of a bad dream, he still remembers the place clearly. He remembers runes and stones and a peculiar darkness that he now feels drawn to.

But Ryan does not lead him there. Instead, he heads right and away, following the stream until it turns into a river further down. It grows, soon a few meters wide with a steep incline on either side. Ferns and mosses make their home on the dead trees that reach into the water. Trunks torn apart by storms find their final resting place along the banks, and Michael can tell from the look of them that animals nest here, plants grow on the corpses, fungi creep into every crevice of the creaking bark.

There is fresher wood, too. A few helpful souls have stacked up logs and constructed something that could technically be called a bridge. Two long planks reach across the water.

Ryan steps onto the bridge without hesitating. While Michael waits for him to cross, his eyes dart to the ground, taking in the wealth of flowers and grasses under his feet. Only the scraps of plastic from a wayward shopping bag and the remains of the beer cans it used to contain distract him from his mission of staying indifferent towards all the surrounding nature. It is hard not to get a _little_ offended on behalf of the forest around him. _  
_

When Ryan is almost over, he turns around and waves at Michael, the sunlight making yellow patterns on his face and arms. Michael can see it giving under his weight, but Ryan does not seem to care, one hand on the sad excuse for a handrail.

"Coming?"

Michael steps forward gingerly, two hands on the railing at first before he reminds himself that it's just a stupid bit of wood. He lets go with his right hand and takes a few steps forward. The board under his feet groans a bit, but even though the green mold growing on the edges of it makes it seem less than solid, it holds up. Michael makes it across the middle of the bridge - It isn't as slippery as he had feared, either, and he wonders idly how much maintenance such a contraption receives.

The water below him doesn't roar. It just chatters to itself, going about its business completely uninterested in pulling sticks or boys along like a proper river worth fearing.

Still, Michael cannot help but feel relieved when he has his feet on solid ground again. Dead leaves crunch under his shoes.

"A bit further now," Ryan says, "Come around this neck of the woods before?"

"Nah," Michael says. "I'm not an outdoors person."

"Figures, since Ray likes you." Ryan stops for a moment as if listening. Michael still cannot hear anything but the rustle of leaves and their own footsteps. "Do you hear that?"

"What?"

Ryan sets off suddenly as he locks onto a direction. "Listen."

And as Michael follows suit, he too can hear it. It sounds like muttering, coming from a small mess of bushes sheltered by a single old oak. From behind the wide tree comes the voice, rising and falling as it speaks-

"Stupid damn candles. Who needs these candles anyway? Who needs candles that smell of the _sea_ and _cotton candy_ that cost like twenty dollars for a single ten-minute tea light? Goddamn-"

"Hey Geoff." Michael's voice makes the other man stop. He looks up from the bushes, a leaf stuck in his hair.

"Oh," Geoff says.

Ryan squats down by him, peering in between the leaves. "What're you rummaging through the bushes for?"

"Dropped my fucking tea lights," Geoff says, scowling. His eyes find Michael's. "This'll just take a minute."

"Why did you get tea lights?" Michael asks.

"I needed candles and it's not my fault this gas station only had stupid scented shit, right? And then I dropped them. The wind grabbed the bag and - “

“There's another one over here, I think,” Ryan says.

Geoff eyes the bramble. “Nah, fuck that candle. I'm not reaching into all those thorns for that-”

While Geoff finds the rest of the runaway tea lights, Michael looks around the glade they’ve arrived in.  Geoff has apparently decided to make his table on a tree-stump. A few sheets of paper are weighted down by rocks picked up from the forest floor. Michael counts a pencil and two markers, too. By the side he finds a ceramic bowl and a plastic bag full of plants, marked only by a black sharpie pen – “ _Wed._ _24/1”_. Above the sky is white, grey clouds gathering far away. The trees are barren and grey as well, but the earth is covered in gold, brown and black where leaves and branches gather on the forest floor. Michael sits down on the ground next to the stump. It is cold, but not wet: bearable.

By the time Michael looks up, Geoff seems to finally have finished gathering his candles. He pours them bitterly into a final plastic bag, glares up at nothing in particular, then ties a knot that makes the plastic squeal in protest and sits down on the other side of the stub.

“Okay,” he says, “With that out of the way...”

“What're we doing?”

Geoff straightens his back. “I thought you ought to try your hand at divination. It’s not that hard-“

“ _Good luck_ ,” Ryan cuts in.

“I'm guessing it's not as simple as he makes it sound,” Michael says.

“Oh,” Ryan continues, “It can be. It's not hard to _do_ , it's just a bit... Eh. You'll figure it out.” He ignores the look that Geoff sends him. “…I'm going to go get some flowers. You can just... I don't know, text me when you're done and I'll drive you home.”

Michael nods. Just like that, Ryan waves and makes his way off, not disappearing into the shadows but wandering away with sunlight almost reflecting off of his white t-shirt.

For a moment, all is quiet as they watch him leave. Geoff taps his fingers, giving off an eerie impression of having something to say, but being unable to do it.

Finally, Geoff cracks his knuckles, looking down at his hands. But first, there's..."

"There's what?"

"A thing I ought to say." Geoff refuses to meet Michael's eyes. “So,” he says.

“So?”

“I figure I... Well, I think I fucked up last time, so sorry 'bout that.”

Michael takes a deep breath. He was not prepared for something like this coming up, cannot do anything but ask, “What?”

“Your first experience with spells shouldn't be in a noisy room surrounded by strangers, and I  -I guess I shouldn't have been so forward. And I shouldn't have touched you. You didn't seem to like that and the whole burning thing...” Geoff scratches the back of his neck idly, still avoiding Michael's gaze. “That was a bit surprising to me, too, to be honest.”

 _That's a grown man sitting there,_ Michael thinks, and he can almost taste the awkwardness in the air.

“Yeah, that's okay,” he says. Trying to lead the conversation elsewhere, he points to the makeshift table between them. “What's this?”

“This? _Oh_.” Geoff snaps out of whatever had come upon him and looks thankful for the distraction as he leans forward, his whole body less tense, arms open. “This is what I thought we'd do today. Scrying! It teaches you how to summon your powers and it is _really_ easy if you’ve got a mind for it. Plus, you can do it with water.”

“Won't catch on fire.”

Geoff clicks his tongue. “Exactly. Michael-proof, eh?” He withdraws a water bottle from his bag and opens it too quickly, pouring the water into the bowl with careless motions that makes it overflow. He doesn't appear to notice, instead reaching into the plastic bag, withdrawing his hand with a fistful of flowers. He crushes the herbs, and Michael watches as seeds and tiny leaves float on top. “Druidic traditions. Kind of. Sort of. Anyway, ready?”

Michael exhales through his nose and straightens his back -“Might as well. Better than holding a picnic here.”

Geoff barks a single hoarse laugh before leaning back and gesturing to the bowl. Droplets run down the side of it. Michael places a hand on either side, feeling the cool ceramic against his skin.

“This is basically to help you get a feel for the power inside you,” Geoff says. “I mixed up things that should make it easier. So. Stare into water, feel power, use power, focus on your goal – that'd be seeing something – and finally, get next week's lottery numbers.”

“Got it,” Michael says sarcastically.

“But seriously don't try to get next week's lottery numbers. Seeing the future is bound to be blurry bullshit unless you’re a natural, but you can't be Nostradamus on your first try. You can always go for just seeing what’s in the present, but in some other _place_. Like… what Ryan is doing right now, maybe.”

“Got it.”

“And you have all the time in the world, remember that. Don't stress. That kills it when you're starting out.”

“If you don't shut up I'm going to stress, Geoff, seriously. Chill.”

Geoff sinks back a little, folding his arms with a small huff.

Michael turns his attention to the bowl in his hands.

“And by the way,” Geoff adds (unaware of the fact that Michael is on the verge of raising his voice), “You don't look silly, if that's what you're thinking.”

Michael doesn't answer. Doesn't even look up.

“Seriously. You look... I don't know. Nevermind.”

Michael just watches the ripples. Seeds bob up and down, plant matter swirling in small spirals.

“Should I have some words to say?” he asks.

“Depends. What would help you see?”

Michael recognizes how Geoff’s voice has changed. Just like last time, he seems to have a certain tone reserved for teaching. It almost annoys Michael, because if there's one thing he'd dislike at this point then it is being patronized. His words taste bitter when he speaks.

“I don't know.” Michael adjusts his position, sending yet more water dripping out of the too-full bowl and onto his fingers. “I could tell the water to make me see? Or draw an eye, maybe? Would that be a good symbol?”

“That's fine.”

Michael sets down the bowl in his lap, holding it with one hand only. He closes his eyes and tries to find that surge of _something_ he felt last time in Geoff's bedroom. Tries to remember the feeling of it, the strange prickling in his fingers. It comes easier this time. _Maybe it's a practice thing. Just like riding a bike_.

The air feels cooler against his body, but there is a heat in his stomach that makes him feel both too hot and too cold at once.

He draws the figure slowly above the bowl, and somehow the air starts to feel denser. He opens his eyes, and he can practically see the impression his movement leaves in it, a shimmering trail remaining after his fingertip moves away.

“ _Let me see_ ,” he whispers, low enough that he doesn’t think even Geoff can hear him.

“Look into the water,” Geoff says, his voice low and warm.

Michael thinks of smoke and the light of little tea-candles, and that thought stays with him, billowing into associations as he turns his gaze downward. He is vaguely aware of the little dim flames in his peripheral vision. The ripples turn to waves, the waves to a maelstrom that draws him in. Nothing matters but the sunlight reflected in the water, dark clouds covering everything else; he finds his mind growing cloudy, too, a haze settling comfortably over his thoughts. A still-aware part of him chimes in that this is the same kind of focus he has sometimes found when enraptured with a game or when driving late at night. It resides not only in his hands, like last time, but in his entire body, heavier in his head.

The light reflected in the water continues to mesmerize him. Between the yellow droplets, he sees something red bloom, unfolding like the flowers on the forest floor or like a stoplight turning but he seizes it all the same, deciding to follow it. Something guides him and somewhere his head starts to hurt, stabs of pain in his eyes forcing him to blink, tears gathering to make the world blurry.

Water runs down the shaking backs of his hand, the sensation not distracting him from the grand vision hidden in the droplets.

He sees the woods that he is in, but he knows that he is not seeing the present. Haywood’s shadow does not stalk between the thin trees. The shade that moves between the paths and rivers is deeper. It is the blackness between the sweeping arc of the light from a lighthouse, between one match and the next in a late-night blackout.

Someone - some _thing -_ is out in the bramble thicket.

Michael wants to see it. A feeling of impending doom tells him that he _must_ see it, but even as his wish manifests as movement in his vision, nothing reveals itself.

Smoke rolls in between the dead and dying saplings and fills his lungs. He turns his head and sees embers embedded in his arms, his hands – the forest is red and orange, now, blue around the edges, and panic courses through him as if he was made of straw and paper.

His hands are shaking badly. A gasp escapes him, but his throat is too tight for words to make their way past his lips.

The fire is bigger than him.

No man could control it, he knows, and he watches the flames flicker – then they run freely across the skin of his arms, scarring him, marking him like tattoos he hopes to get some day.

Associations again – tattoos – Geoff's voice, calling to him from the other side of the smoke.

“Michael! Hey, hey, what's happening?”

Michael shuts his eyes tight until all he can see is colors fading and blooming in a heavy dark. He becomes aware of the fact that he can't actually feel the flames.

“It's not real, whatever you're seeing,” Geoff continues. “Look at me, Michael.”

But Michael can't, afraid of what he'll see, afraid in a very primal way of the forest fire raging on the other side of his eyelids.

A hand touches his shoulder. Warm and gentle in its pressure, gripping onto his t-shirt - “Hey. Look at me. Snap out of it.”

Michael feels himself being shaken faintly. Finally he finds the strength to open his eyes and he sees Geoff leaning in over the make-shift table with a look of pure concern in his eyes. And he's not on fire. Neither of them are. Everything is green around them, now tinged with grey as clouds have begun gathering on the other side of the branches. They are in the here and now, and Geoff’s hand and the faint smile on his lips is reassuring Michael that that is not a bad place to be.

Geoff slowly withdraws his hand, relief clear on his face. “Goddamn,” he says softly, “You had me worried.”

Michael leans back, putting the bowl down and running his fingers through his disheveled hair. Breathes. “Now, I haven't done drugs, but I think that was a bad trip. Is that supposed to happen?”

“Depends on what you saw.”

Michael shrugs. “Fire. It was... “

“Frightening?”

“I was on fire. So yeah, you could say that.” He runs his fingers through his hair, exhaling slowly. “But I guess it was kind of impressive, too.”

“The gift is a fickle mistress.” Geoff strokes his mustache. “It could just have been anxiety or something. At least you seemed to get into it quickly.”

“I thought... That maybe I had done it before. Accidentally.”

“That's possible. Do you want to try it again?”

Michael looks down. _Embers, fire, smoke, something between the trees..._  “I'd rather… not. But I did feel the power, so that succeeded, I think.”

Geoff reaches out and takes the bowl without questioning Michael further. He tosses the water nonchalantly into the bushes. “Wanna try something else?”

“What'd you have in mind?”

“Well...” Geoff brings his hand awkwardly to the back of his neck. “I had thought about conjuring a little flame or something as an exercise, but that's probably not a great idea..."

“I want to try fixing something,” Michael says.

The suggestion seems to take Geoff a bit aback, but then he obliges. From his pocket, he withdraws a trinket like those Michael has seen lying around his house – like the one he can see hanging off of Geoff's wrist right now. Strands of twine twist around themselves, ending in a knot with a little pale, rough gemstone that Michael can't identify dangling alongside a single feather. This gem, unlike the one Geoff is wearing, is cracked. Lines like lightning run down the side of it.

“What are the point of these anyway?” Michael asks, weighing the small bracelet in his hand.

“This one used to be against minor accidents. Like bad weather or forgetting your keys. Doesn't matter, because it's doing nothing right now.”

Michael tries to remember the motion, the feel of the spell he worked last time. “I’d like to remember my keys all the time,” he remarks.

“It's okay if you want a moment to breathe before-”

“No,” Michael retorts, “I really want to know that I can do this. And it'd distract me from the last thing.”

And maybe, a voice says, maybe he wants to prove something to not only himself, but also Geoff. Scrying had been more or less a failure. Like the glasses. He does not want Geoff to be disappointed, to be pitying him – he wants at least a smidge of admiration…

“Just be careful about the - Nah. I've got faith in you. Go ahead.”

Michael can feel the other man's gaze on him when he readies himself. He still takes a moment to follow Geoff's suggestion, though, staring up to the sky and giving himself time to _breathe_. His heart is still beating a bit fast, but he has a sinking feeling that if he stops now, he's going to end up doubting himself. The failed attempt at scrying has filled him with something like anger, and he's going to use that to do better this time.

He's going to use that to _make_ something.

It's strange how quickly something weird becomes something commonplace, how easily he can slip into the different state of mind that magic gives him – or maybe he never left in the first place. Maybe the art that Gavin and all the others mastered is never quite leaving the altered state, remaining in touch with something deep and different, at odds with all the normalcy around them. Maybe Michael will join them there eventually, because he already feels like he understands.

He draws the sigil, tracing the lines as if they were already there.

He glances up at Geoff and the man's interested gaze and feels the spell turning and twisting under his hands.

He realizes just how badly he wants this to succeed. He can see the cracks mending, the twine growing stronger. If it doesn't, Geoff will see that he can't create, that he isn't the potential that he saw. That-

That he's made the gem whole again, but warm, so warm against the palm of his hand. Searing red.

He lets out a yelp of pain as he drops it alongside the thoughts it caused. He stares at it when it lies in the grass and thinks _why do I care so much about what Geoff thinks about me? Enough to make the spells go wrong?_

Geoff has no answers, only a blank expression.

The amulet sizzles in the grass.

Michael waits until it looks safe before he picks it up, raising it in the air for Geoff to see.

“Looks better,” the older man declares. “The cracks are gone.”

“Not-”

“Not perfect, no. You should see what I get up to when I try to use magic drunk. Or what I did back in college! Man, as far as mistakes go that's not the worst I've seen. You accomplished your goal. Sometimes things happen along the way.”

Michael has little to say in the face of the unexpected praise. He turns the amulet over in his hand. When he looks up again, Geoff's eyebrows are knit closely together, his eyes wide and staring down to the ground.

“ _Although_ ,” he says slowly, “You might want to deal with that forest fire you're about to start...”

Michael follows his eyes and sees embers glow near a tuft of vulnerable grass where the trinket had laid. He stands up, ready to grind his heel down and snuff out the threat when he hears Geoff's voice again.

“Or you can just not bother. I think I felt rain.”

A cold droplet lands on Michael's face, and he can hear others hitting the leaves and the forest floor around them. “Yeah,” he says, bringing down his foot on the embers anyway. “I can feel it too.”

“Think we should call it a day?”

Michael nods. He joins Geoff in packing away the materials, holding a bag open while Geoff packs the plants carefully in. He does not bend their stalks or ruin the petals. Michael doesn't know why he expected differently. The bowl is picked up and stashed back into the backpack, all the chalk drawings Geoff had drawn are wiped away before the rain does it for them. Geoff stands up and looks the spot over. Michael only cares superficially, a little voice in the back of his skull telling him that you don't just _leave_ rubbish out in the woods. While Geoff counts that he has remembered all his little stones and papers, Michael leans against a tree and wonders how forgetful the man usually is to make him feel the need to check so thoroughly. As the rains pick up Geoff takes shelter next to Michael, crossing his arms across his chest.

“Now there's just Ryan,” he says.

Michael wonders if he should strike up conversation, but there does not seem to be a lot to say. It'd almost be wrong to spoil the soundscape anyway – the sound of rain surrounds them, joining the breathing of the river in the distance and the rise and ebb of the wind in the trees. Michael just watches this, all the moving green and grey, the flashes of silver on the sky.

His gaze pauses by Geoff's profile. Water drips from his hair, running down the side of his face and the dark valleys under his eyes. When he reaches up and wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, Michael becomes aware of his own staring and shifts his attention to the woods around them until Ryan emerges from between the trees.

The man is wet and carrying a shopping bag in one hand. The other is holding a mess of reeds and pondweeds close to his body. He picks up his pace as he approaches them, and in lieu of waving he smiles briefly.

“Shall we?” he asks, and Michael and Geoff emerge slowly from the shelter of the tree. 

* * *

 

They trek back the way they came, the trodden path now a bit more slippery. The rain is not exactly freezing, but it is still cold enough that they all walk at a brisk pace.

“Did it go well?” Ryan asks.

“Did what?” is Geoff's response. He takes a few quick steps to catch up to Ryan, who walks in the front.

“The magic!” Ryan answers loudly, still unable to make himself heard completely above the wind.

“It went okay!”

“What did you think Michael?!”

“What?”

“Do you think it went well?” Ryan repeats.

Michael jumps across a small puddle, but the impact with the mud on the other side sends water flooding into his shoes anyway. “It was just OK,” he says.

“It'll get better!” Ryan assures him, and whatever thoughts Michael has about the subject are not voiced as they arrive at the bridge.

If it looked slippery before, it looks downright dangerous now. The first boom of thunder echoes, a thin flash of white light scarring the sky. The chorus of droplets hitting the surface of the river water grows more intense as the rain increases.

“I'll go first,” Ryan says. He shifts his shopping bag over so that his right arm is free before stepping out onto the bridge. He looks straight down to his feet, and Michael can hear the wooden boards creaking under the man's weight. “It's fine,” Ryan assures them. “Come on.”

Michael steps forward next, but he waits until Ryan is across before following him. He clenches his hands and feels his fingers slide against his palms, slick with water. The first step he takes makes the wood give, and as he takes another, it practically bends down towards the center.

“Of course they couldn't just install a railing,” he says quietly, mostly to himself.

He follows Ryan's strategy, looking at his feet. He cannot help but notice the cracks in the boards and the large green splotches of molds and mushrooms that grow on the moist wood.

Looking up, he confirms that he is halfway across. Lightning strikes again, and the sound does not unnerve him as much as the sudden gust of cold wind that surprises him with its strength. It feels even worse because he already is wet, and the next step he takes is awkward as his foot lands on something too slippery. Then the worst happens: he loses his balance. He grasps for something to hold, but finds nothing. Instead his wild movements conspire with the wind and the water to send him falling over the edge -

At least until he hears three steps echo and feels them reverberate in the bridge. He has one leg in the water, and the angle of his torso tells him the rest of him would have followed if Geoff had not grasped his wrist tightly with one hand.  The other guides Michael up. Michael tries to help, but there is not a lot to grab onto. Cold water pulls at the fabric of Michael’s pants.

“I'll pull you up,” Geoff offers, and the attempt is, in fact, successful – for all of ten seconds. As soon as Michael is up, lying quite ungracefully on his stomach on the middle of the bridge, the sudden shift in weight means that it is instead Geoff who loses his balance and staggers a step back, which sends him straight into the stream.

The splash doesn't manage to drown out the loud curse that Geoff somehow finds time to exclaim on the way down.

For a moment, Michael is genuinely scared. He gets up quickly, going straight across to Ryan's side and getting off of the _stupid bridge_ in a matter of minutes because there are important things at stake, now, he doesn't know if Geoff can _swim_ and Ryan is not doing much of anything – he's just staring and making his way to the water's edge in a too-leisurely manner.

Then he sees that the water only reaches Geoff to a little above his waist. He is absolutely drenched, top to toe, and he looks at once very, very sad and very, very pissed. His mustache droops solemnly.

Michael can't help but laugh a little as the tension inside him unwinds.

Geoff swears again, louder now, and starts a plodding walk to shore. His steps are large and clumsy, hindered by the flow of the river. Aquatic plants hang from his shoulders and hair. His wading draws long lines on the surface of the water, and these are broken only by the rain making circles within circles. Between Michael and Ryan, they manage to pull Geoff up on land again without much trouble. Geoff glares at them, but neither Michael's quick bursts of laughter or Ryan's deeper chuckles stop. In the end, Geoff abides and even joins them.

“Might as well have sent you to get those plants, huh?” Ryan asks.

“Shut up,” is Geoff's response. “Shit, it's cold.”

Michael can see him shivering.

When Geoff starts walking again his arms and legs look heavy, weighted down by the wet clothes. He stumbles across an uneven patch of ground, wide hands reaching out to the tree-trunks to hold himself up. Michael doesn't even think twice about getting closer and supporting him.

He guides Geoff so that the other man's arm is draped over Michael's shoulder, and they walk in step the rest of the way. Whenever Geoff is about to stumble, Michael corrects him, shoulders the weight of his body. The rest of the time he can hardly think of anything but how close they are.

They sail together through a cool grayness made of rain and air and the cold radiating from Geoff's body. Michael's hand is white against Geoff's faded black T-shirt. The intensity of the downpour drowns out everything but the here and now, the weight of Geoff on him, the sound of his breathing – a bit ragged when the shivers assault him, calm and heavy when he looks at Michael. He only looks in glimpses, though, before staring straight ahead again.

“Fingers crossed that you don't get a cold,” Michael says.

“More like hypothermia,” Ryan adds. Branches crack under his boots.

Geoff scoffs. “Pneumonia.”

“Fuck it, that too,” Michael continues. “All the diseases your mother warned you about. You're gonna be in bed for days.”

“You could summon me some luck,” Geoff suggests.

“Maybe I could,” Michael says. “I don’t really think these are ideal conditions, though.””

“I’m not being the best teacher right now, either.”

“It's not your fault the weather turned bad.”

“It is. Kind of. I could've warded or _done_ something-”

“Um,” Ryan cuts in, “We're almost at the car.”

Michael can see the white paint through the leaves and the rain. Geoff walks the last meters on his own while Michael hastens to open the back-seat doors, Geoff protesting faintly but Ryan insisting that he is not going to drive while his hands are shaking like that.

“How's my car getting home then?” Geoff asks.

Ryan looks around, wetting his lips. “Can you take it, Michael?”

“I guess,” is Michael's answer, and before he knows it Ryan has gone through Geoff's pockets and thrown him the key. 

* * *

Geoff's car handles differently than Michael's own. He cannot tell if it is worse or better, only that there seem to be parts that aren't in his own, small things making tiny noises deep in the machinery. A different hum to the engine.

He follows Ryan's car all the way out of the woods and back to Geoff's house, and every time they stop for red, Michael traces the seams of the seats just to feel the leather under his fingers. His hands never get to warm the steering wheel up and he leaves the car a stranger when he steps out of it. Not even glancing into the rear-view mirror to see the mess of blankets in the back seat or inhaling the scent of empty beer bottles and rosehip makes him feel like he has been anything but a ghost in the car. He doesn't think about Geoff. He just senses and fights the gas pedal when it gets stuck.

When he gets out of it after having parked it by Geoff's porch, he mostly just remembers the small cloth bags laying on the dashboard, sweet-smelling and tied up with careful knots and worn string.

Geoff looks better now, but he is still in dire need of a change of clothes.

Ryan turns around halfway through the door.

“Coming?”

Michael shakes his head. “I have... things to do,” he says. The excuse sounds lame to him, but he's not lying.

Not to mention that Geoff doesn't seem to need him right now. Each time he's been around the other man, there had been something like responsibility or guilt between them that makes Michael worry about awkward silences in that house.

And he worries about Lindsay too, and schoolwork, and he still hasn't dealt with that job, and the car had been slept in and he wonders how it'd feel to lie in the backseat.

* * *

The amulet lies in his pocket where he forgets about it when he gets home.


	4. Haruspicy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haruspicy: the art of telling the future through the use of bones and animal innards.  
> I considered making the title a pun on "chicken soup for the soul", but I couldn't come up with one I liked enough...  
> This chapter has an image in it! If you're reading this as an epub or mobi or something, be sure that it's not missing...?

The rain lasts the night, and Michael wakes up to a world as grey as the one he abandoned last evening. He lies in his bed watching the pale light that filters through the half-open blinds. The white sheets on his bed look like paper. He almost expects them to resist him and crumple when he moves, but they only rustle softly. 

Sitting on his bed, he looks not at his messy room but at the particles of dust floating through the air, illuminated by an anemic sun. Time doesn't exist until he decides that he wants it to, so he waits for a while in a drowsy state that is neither here nor there, eyes unfocused, hands and arms slack between his bruised knees. Though he can see his desk from here, slivers of silver eraser shavings on plains of white paper, black pens almost chewed to bits at the ends, the thought of school is as distant as the clouds out the window.

He cracks his knuckles absentmindedly. There are splinters in his palms that he has not noticed until now. Half a forest had been stuck in his hair and clothes when he came home the night before, and even despite a long shower he still fears that he smells like leaves and damp earth. 

He watches the weather pulse and wonders when his mind was last so quiet.

Then his phone beeps.

Michael's thoughts are slow like honey. _Text message_. _You should probably get that_.

The only hindrance is that the phone is lying on the floor halfway out of the pocket of a pair of discarded jeans. Michael stretches out his hand, flexing the muscles, returning to his body centimeter by centimeter. He tilts his head, blinking, wondering if he looks wide-eyed and wondrous or just worn-out to some extreme point when he opens his mouth, dry lips protesting as he forms a word.

 _“Come_ ,” he whispers, and the sensation of fire flowing through his veins arrives quickly. He can already easily bring to mind the sensation of the cool metal sliding into his hand, and before he knows it, it is no longer just in his imagination. He sees the phone free itself of the denim and hover in the air - and strangely, it feels completely natural. He can't name any circumstance where it wouldn't be strange to see something levitate, but now... He doesn't let his own thoughts distract him, remembering what little he has learned. He lets his mind coil inward around the one thought, _crossing the room, finding me, coming into my open palm -_

The phone makes the journey across the room in a matter of seconds, and when Michael lowers his hand, his reflection in the black screen is smiling. 

“ _Sup,”_ the little gray face that represents Ray declares.

_“Good morning to you too"_

_"You're writing kinda early."_

_"sorry."_

_"usually im not even awake at this point, but ive had a shitty night."_

_"couldnt sleep."_

_"That sucks."_

It takes a moment before the next message comes, and in the meantime, Michael starts to look around the piles of clean clothes not yet sorted into his closet for something to wear.

_"it really does"_

_"its wierd. usually i dont have nightmares"_

_"ive cast a spell to ward it off."_

_"but it didnt work this time."_

Michael stares at the text and feels a shudder down his spine. No need to mention that, though.

__"I could use that spell sometime."_ _

Michael has put on pants and a shirt when his phone beeps again, and he reads the message while walking barefoot into the kitchen.

_“give me a sec"  
_

Unsure of what to say, Michael types in a smiley face and leans against the kitchen table. The wood feels strangely rough under his hands, as if he has become sensitized.

_“:)”_

                      “ _By the way, I made my phone levitate this morning.”_

_“Cool. How?”_

_“...I just told it to. It’s getting easier. I just told it to come.”_

_“congrats”_

_“there we go. I have a link for you”_

_“yeah?”_

_“it’s a spellbook.”_

_“?”_

_"you know. for magic"_

_"I get what a spellbook is ray just send the link."_

_"k"_

_“Here.”_

Michael turns his attention from breakfast to the link. It is a rather large document; and michael scrolls down to a random page. There are too many colors, he quickly decides. 

        

       

“ _Google Docs?_ _Seriously?”_

_"21 th century witchcraft!”_

_"You can get by with just english commands for simple things. otherwise idk how Gavin would survive."_

_"but there are lots of different ways to do shit? and it can be pretty useful to use phrases that other people have designed to work. and a bit of latin and stuff too. though it's individual.”_

Michael's eyes glaze over the definitions, the words, the infights between – and sometimes clearly on – the lines. Then he puts the phone aside to focus on his breakfast.

In some ways it is probably strange to live in a world that encompasses both Latin spells and perfectly brown toast with jam.

_“btw. do you want to play something later?”_

_“I've got studying to do, but an hour later on?”_

_“We both know its not gonna be an hour but ok. Mssg me.”_

Michael takes a bite and leans against the counter.

A glimmer of sun escapes the grey, leaps thousands of miles and crashes through the kitchen window to fade by his feet on the floor. 

* * *

In class, Michael zooms out so far that the text in the document should be illegible to anyone looking over his shoulder. Then, leaning forward on his elbows, he tries to divide his attention evenly between Spanish and his own beginning ambition. With every definition on the page, his determination grows as he realizes that he could probably do a hundred different reality-defying tricks.

But, demands the blackboard, can he decline these verbs?

Michael feels his teacher's stare burn through his computer screen, and sighing, he closes his laptop and watches Sorola pace back and forth, gesticulating with his mug of coffee.

“Remember that there'll be a test this Monday,” he says, “And it's pretty important to your grade, so I would study for it if I were you.”

Michael grits his teeth. He leans back and catches Lindsay's eyes from across the room. She exaggerates a sigh and rolls her eyes. Michael wishes they didn't sit so far apart.

When the class is over, the first thing he does it approach her. He puts his hands in his pockets and watches as she packs up. Her red hair is everywhere and her sweatshirt is all crumbled at the sleeves. “Overslept,” she says, “And I don't think I'm the only one, looking at you.”

“What?”

Lindsay shrugs. “I don't know. You just looked tired.” She zips up her bag and throws it over her shoulder, nodding towards the door. “We going?”

Michael leads the way. “This was just what we needed,” he says, “Another test.”

“We could read up for it together.”

“We could.“

“It’s better than suffering on your own. Sunday sound good to you?” Lindsay sidesteps a running boy before continuing, “I know that if I study up Saturday it's all gonna be gone by Monday.”

“Well...” Michael says. “Actually, I think I have to do something that day.”

“Oh. Sure.” There's playful mock-jealousy in Lindsay's voice. “You _new friends_ , my little social butterfly.”

“Sheesh. That hurt.”

“I know. You can take it.” She punches Michael lightly. “Saturday can probably be fine too, I guess. I'll just blame you if I fail it.”

“Do that, then.”

They leave the crowded hallway behind them and head outside. Puddles of rainwater still dot the asphalt, and the sky looms dark above them.

Lindsay sighs softly. “Seems like the weather just won't let up.”

“Tell me about it,” Michael says, “I got caught in the rain yesterday. I still don't feel dry.”

“What were you doing?”

“...Taking a walk in the woods, nothing major.”

“Now I'm getting really worried about you,” Lindsay jokes. “Going outside willingly.”

* * *

And it is to combat that worry that Michael gets up earlier than usual on Saturday to clean both himself and the house. He wipes the counters as he rubs the sleep from his eyes, and he lays out his books and notes on his desk. He sets another chair for Lindsay and waits for her to come.

Everything is prepared. He’s planned out how the hours are going to go.

He expects Lindsay to arrive fifteen minutes later than the time they had decided over text, and she does. He also expects that her excuse will be the stray cats that she has an uncanny ability to find everywhere she goes, and it is. She upends her bag over his table and takes a seat, leaning back in her chair as Michael goes off first to make coffee - then to check the door as the doorbell rings a second time. He does not expect that.

He does not expect Gavin Free.

Gavin’s hair is more messy than usual, the slight breeze outside apparently enough to tousle it every which way. His eyes light up as he sees Michael, and his hands twitch at his sides as though he is suppressing the urge to make great arm motions.  

Michael looks at him and simply states, "Gavin."

“Hi, Michael."

"I'm, uh, glad to see you, but why're..."

Gavin bounces on the balls of his feet. "I was wondering if you were okay."

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Gavin lets out a sigh of relief. “Good. That’s good.”

“You’re making me worried, dude.”

Gavin shoulders his way past Michael, taking off his coat as he goes and somehow not stumbling over his own feet as he makes his way into the apartment. “It’s nothing, it’s nothing.”

Michael, realizing that Gavin is just a single door away from colliding with Lindsay, reaches out for him to stop him in his tracks.

“Seriously. What are you doing here?” 

"As I said, I was just wondering how you were doing." Gavin, staring at him now, seems unable to contain himself standing still. His fingers are tapping on his crossed arms and his feet are dragging across the floor or bobbing up and down, his eyes just as restless. “Geoff got pretty sick. Like a _really_ bad cold. Fever an' all. He stayed in bed ever since he came home.”

 _Were you there or what?_   Michael thinks. He can picture Gavin standing by Geoff’s bedside, apparently a fixture in his house. Maybe even bringing him wet towels and tea. The thought is as comical as it is strangely intriguing – just what relationship do they have, exactly?

Michael doesn't say any of that out loud. He just asks, “How’s he doing now?” 

“Okay. I mean. He, uh, hasn’t complained too much today, and his fever was down last I checked on him. I’m always around, you know, so.” Gavin reaches up to run his fingers through his hair like it isn’t already unruly _enough_. “I was worried you had caught the same thing, so I thought… I don't know about your friends and such. If you were alone with it, that would've been the worst, wouldn't it?”

Michael can’t help but see actual concern in Gavin’s eyes, and he wonders how quickly he has become a part of Gavin’s life. A big enough part to care about.

“Well, thanks,” he says, “But as you can see, I’m fine. Healthy as ever.”

“…Is now a bad time? Do you want me to leave?”

 _Well,_ Michael thinks, _yes_. He _did_ want him to leave so he could get back to Lindsay, who he supposed was growing rather impatient on the other side of the door, but now Gavin had those damn puppy eyes…

“You want to stay?”

Gavin’s face lit up in a smile – “Yeah, I mean, why not-“ he paused as he opened the door, making eye contact with Lindsay in all her lazy, elbows-deep-in-studying glory. “There’s already someone there.”

Michael frowns. “Well, duh. You came out of the blue, remember?”

“Oh.”

Michael’s brain is more or less working damage control; figuring out a reason for meeting Gavin that doesn’t have anything to do with magic. But when it comes to making up stories, Lindsay is way ahead of him. She looks a Gavin, head to toe, and gives Michael a knowing glance.

“That your boyfriend?” she asks, pointing to Gavin with the end of a pencil. This alone is bad - but of course Gavin has to, at the exact same moment, belt out his own question:

“Is that your girlfriend?”

For a long moment Michael is caught between the two glances. He feels all strange at the accusation, striding in to stand between them and feeling his cheeks grow red as he talks – “God no, Lindsay, it’s not- It’s not like that, and Gavin, this is Lindsay. We’re just friends. All of us.“

“Aww,” Gavin coos. “Friends all around.”

“I still don’t buy it,” Lindsay declares, leaning forward on her elbows. “Because I was just thinking that that would be the perfect explanation for all the strange things you’ve been doing lately. Of course you wouldn’t have time for me when you’ve got mister tall over there.”

“…He’s not that tall,” Michael remarks.

Lindsay shrugs and looks back down to the worksheets. At Michael’s wordless insistence, Gavin takes a seat at the table because if he’s going to be present, he might as well not just stand around like a weird gangly fixture. Michael can’t help but be a bit on edge, seeing them opposite one another like that. He knows too little about Gavin to want him this close – he could say anything and everything, and God knows that that mouth of his is never just still. Even as Michael resumes his coffee-brewing, Gavin keeps talking. He is clearly audible above the hum of the machine, but Lindsay does not try to get him to shut up, something Michael knows that she’s more than capable off. Instead, she even hums in reply once or twice as far as he can discern. A low effort conversation, but a conversation none the less.

“So, what are you doing? Seems like a lot of work.”

“Spanish,” Lindsay says.

“An awful lot of it too. Never bothered with it myself. Did pick up some Latin and old English later, though, but that’s bloody useless day to day. Is Michael studying it too?”

“Mhm.”

“I’m out of school and I’m having a right blast so far, really. I do some camera work and some freelance stuff. Got a lot of… Tricks of the trade.”

“Cool.”

“I like it. And I guess Spanish isn’t the main point of Michael’s life either looking at this place. I didn’t know he’d have as many games. Well, I knew he was into gaming ‘cause we have a mutual acquaintance that he met through it but this is..  Like we could hang out and stuff.”

Michael has a cup of coffee in each hand, but he stays in the kitchen, leaning against the counter. He listens attentively, eating up the bits of offered information as they come. It's not really eavesdropping when Gavin is under Michael's roof, is it? By now, it mostly sounds like he’s talking to himself anyway.

“But why Latin?” Lindsay asks.

 “I…” Gavin begins. His voice trails off as Michael takes this as his signal to re-enter the room, giving him a stern _she-doesn’t-know-about-it_ -glance. “Personal interest?” he tries, and Lindsay looks back down and accepts it for an answer as far as Michael can tell.

Michael places a cup in front of Lindsay and one for himself, taking a chair next to Gavin. “There’s more in the kitchen if you want,” he says, and Gavin nods.

"I don't like it much," he says.

After that the conversation dies out, leaving all of them in a comfortable silence.

Michael skims a couple of pages, making notes, thinking halfway through that he’s probably only doing it because it creates the illusion of learning. He looks up every once in a while to see Lindsay studying more diligently than himself and Gavin – Gavin leaning back as the sunlight comes in through the window, coloring him a little gold, a little bronze. He’s made of angles, of limbs that don’t quite work together as well as they could. And that nose. Instead of talking, he keeps his attention on the pictures on the walls or the world outside the window.

Michael tries to focus on taking notes. It’s not like that technique has ever done a lot for him. When Lindsay slides a few sheets of mock-test questions and exercises across the table he solves those, occasionally commenting –

“Really, why would you ever _need_ so many forms of your verbs?”

“I don’t know, Michael,” Lindsay answers. She sighs, running a hand through her hair. Red as autumn leaves, Michael thinks, and the mere association makes him yearn for being outside.

Maybe he’ll get there soon. He glances at Gavin whose mere presence is a reminder of the fact that somewhere in this city, Geoff, his coven and the study sessions in the woods also exist.

“Are we…” Michael is looking at Gavin, but he pauses midway through to lick his lips. For a moment he wonders why he let even the beginning of the question slip out. Then he realizes it’d probably sound weirder if he didn’t finish it. “Are we going to meet up tomorrow?”

Gavin, who has been leaning back on the chair so that it was balancing on two legs perks up and leans forward again. His attention, previously scattered and distant, now centers entirely on Michael. There’s even a little spark in his eyes that wasn’t there before as he speaks.

“Sure. I mean, even if Geoff is still in bed he’s not gonna protest against the rest of us coming over like usual. And he’s better, as I said. Probably not even contagious by now.”

“That’s good.”

“It was _horrible_ the day before yesterday,” Gavin says. The mere memory makes him scrunch up his face. “He was thinking he was gonna vomit, right, and just the thought of that made _me_ feel like I was going to, and it just kept going like that. Everytime he gagged I did too.”

Something in the way Gavin says it makes Michael laugh softly. “An ouroboros of vomiting.”

“Something like that.”

But as Michael quiets down, something like guilt takes place in the pit of his stomach. “Do you think I should try to do something to make up for it? Owe him a favor or something?”

“Remember that I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Lindsay says, looking at both of them from beneath her bangs. “Just so you know.”

“It’s okay. It’s not important,” Michael says.

Gavin furrows his brows – “I’d say it’s pretty important, actually-“

“I get it,” Michael responds. “Maybe I’ll bring some chicken soup tomorrow.”

And just like that, Gavin resumes his balancing act. “Good. Then it’s not on me to cook.” He looks to Lindsay. “Can Michael cook though?”

After a moment, Lindsay answers with a curt “I think so.” She dots the final I’s and pushes her notebook away from her. Michael sees page upon page of scrawled tables. “He’ll still find a way to burn down his kitchen, I believe.”

“Oh, have some faith in me,” Michael says, reaching out to push her gently. The contact between his hand and her shoulder is brief, but it cements in his head that Lindsay is here, and she’s seeing Gavin and hearing things about Michael’s new acquaintances even if she doesn’t understand what she’s hearing. It makes it all seem a little more real, in a way, now that it mixes with what he has begun calling his normal life.

Also, the suggestion of making chicken soup has apparently become a promise, and now it’s hard to back out of.

So he won’t.

Gavin looks at him expectantly, causing Michael to blurt out, “Well, it’s not like I’m going to start right this moment.”

“Too bad,” is Gavin’s response, “I wonder how you’d look in a frilly apron and all.”

“I bet he _has_ a frilly apron,” Lindsay adds, “Cooking might be his secret passion.”

“Screw you both.”

“It’s okay Michael, we all need a hobby.” Gavin is positively giddy.

“Even if I did have an apron you know I’d look good in it,” Michael says, “And that’s the last of that, right?”

The others exchange glances and suppress smiles. Ten minutes of pencil-against-paper, Gavin’s chair scraping against the floor and the turning of textbook pages pass. Then Lindsay yawns and stretches her arms.

“I guess I’m done here, then.”

Michael can’t say the same. Doesn’t feel like he has been doing enough, and maybe that’s true because he’s spent far too much time talking or just looking at Gavin. _Asshole_ , he finds himself thinking, _coming over and interrupting everything…_

But maybe it’s okay, seen in the grand scheme of things. He's not actually mad at all. 

It’s when Lindsay is gone, all her knowledge safely packed into bags and pockets, and when Gavin has followed suit a little slower, that Michael stops and thinks. He realizes how well Gavin turned out to fit with him and Lindsay and the space of Michael’s apartment. How it feels like they’ve been friends for a long while, not just a little less than two weeks.

He shuts out the thought as he shut the front door, choosing to focus on the task at hand.

Soup. Freezable, nutritious, _I’m-sorry-you-ended-up-with-hypothermia-because-of-me-_ soup.

 

The apartment feels a bit emptier once Michael is alone in it, as it is wont to do. When he retreats to the kitchen he can at least manage to fill that room with the clatter of pots and knives. His laptop stands on the counter, and he silently thanks whatever powers that may be for being able to google recipes. He cuts up half a chicken, seperating flesh from white bone and sinew. He stares at the ribs and cartillage, the bones now holding more meaning than before. To think that the ragged edges of it all could hold meaning. That the future can be told from the bones in his hand...

He goes on with his cooking, chopped vegetables spilling out past the edges of his cutting board and a stock well underway before he gets off track again. That is, of course, a minor issue with new technology – you’re liable to distractions. In this case it takes only a click before he is scrolling through a now almost familiar document.

There’s no categorizing, no real system, so it takes him a while to find a cluster of spells and notes dealing with health and sickness. There he sees Ray and Ryan’s contributions, one entry each. They at least have some organization. They describe where they got it from, what the words are, what movements and things they suppose could help. Others have commented, but Michael guesses that far more discussion has taken place in real life than what the document lets on. The lgreen text that he supposes is Gavin’s simply suggests _“a cup of tea and a lie down, because when you’re ill you’re too bummed out to do much magic anyways_ ”.

Michael chooses the spell that Ray has written up just because it is the shortest. (Ryan’s involves entirely too much dried elderberry for Michael’s comfort, and the incantation is in some kind of weird old English with a meter that he’s not going to bother with. Besides, that’d mean seriously committing to doing this, and Michael still likes to think that he’s just experimenting, doing this for the hell of it. Nothing more).

He waits until the pot is boiling, wondering idly if it’s even supposed to be done like this. Maybe, for it to be right, he’s supposed to say the words directly above the body in question or something.  
Doesn’t matter, he decides. It’s all supposed to be about intent anyway, isn’t it?

He licks his lips and double-checks the words, holding his hand out above the surface of the soup.

“ _Sanitas et valetudini veniet…”_

It’s getting easier to slip into this almost-trance where he can draw from the well inside him. It’s easy to say the words. He feels a prickling long his arms, goosebumps forming all the way to his hands.

 _Visualize trees_ , the notes say, _think of great woods growing strong._

Just like in the woods when he was there with Geoff. This is an easy image to keep in mind. He feels as if he’s succeeding, and the area above the pot grows steadily warmer.  
It’s not a wave like it has been before. It doesn’t whisk him away, but something _does_ happen.

When he closes his hand and draws back, the soup looks no different. Still, he remains optimistic.

Michael packs away the laptop and sits, for a short while, just staring at the boiling pot despite all folk knowledge. He should probably tell Ray that he used a spell of his. A spell that, according to Ray’s own description, was found in a medieval text a few hundred years old.

He takes the pot of the stove and lets it cool.

* * *

Michael feels too much like a suburban mom as he stops in Geoff’s garden, a larger Tupperware container in his hands. Now, he can recognize the cars parked outside. Geoff’s and Ryan’s. Fresh footsteps in the wet grass lead to the front door, and Michael finds it unlocked.

This time it’s quieter in the entranceway. Resting the container against his hip, Michael tries to listen for any discussion coming from the house, but nobody is raising their voices now. There’s a buzz of conversation, but he cannot make out the words.

But as he discovers when he goes further in, this does not mean that things are calm at all.

Geoff is a solid shape amidst the lazy smoke of the incense and the movement of the hands that weave through it. He is wrapped up in blankets that seem older than him, and his skin reflects their muted grey color. At least the bags under his eyes are lighter now from whatever rest he must have managed to get between the coughing that Michael hears as soon as he enters. It’s strange, Michael thinks, how being rested almost looks wrong on Geoff’s face. As if he forgoing sleep is a sign of health for him.

Geoff looks up, his eyes meeting Michael’s.

“Heh,” he says, shifting beneath the blankets as to free an arm and wave briefly, “My favorite apprentice.”

Gavin lays sprawled over the sofa, and at Geoff’s words he scoffs. “Apprentice,” he says mockingly. “Are you implying you consider me an’ Ray your apprentices too?”

“Well,” Geoff says, “Do _you_?”

Gavin doesn’t look pleased, crossing his arms.  

“I too, am incredibly offended,” Ray adds. “We’re strong independent wizards.” Michael can just about make out his body on the floor behind the coffee table. He holds his Nintendo DS straight in the air above his head, the game illuminating his face in shifting colors.

Jack and Ryan both nod in greeting from their separate chairs. Ryan’s left hand rests on a skull while his right is frozen mid-gesture before it falls to his lap.

“What were you talking about?” Michael asks.

“Not much,” Ryan says. “…Party tricks.” He looks almost ashamed, eyes downcast.

“I told them about you managing to levitate your phone,” Ray says.

“It kinda turned into a competition,” Geoff says, rubbing the back of his neck. “It was, uh…”

Michael looks around the room, but cannot see anything that looks broken immediately. Then, on further investigation, the coffee table is definitely not where it was last time, the couch seems to be askew, and at least one picture has been knocked from the wall.

“I won.” Jack chuckles softly. “Turns out I can lift the couch. With Ryan on it.”

“Nature’s way of compensating, isn’t it? Brawn instead of brains?” Gavin comments.

Geoff pushes him – nothing too rough, but enough to get Gavin over to the other end of the couch. “Like you’ve got either. And make room for Michael.”

Ryan raises his voice before Michael can move. “Speaking of you, Michael, what is it you’ve got for us?”

And before Michael can explain, Gavin stretches his hand out. “Come ‘ere,” he says, staring intently at the container – and before Michael can do anything, he knows that Gavin is using his gift and it’s out of his hands. The soup sloshes around inside, threatening to spill over the edges if the lid were to fall off. Had the distance been any bigger Michael had suspected a disaster. As it is, the Tupperware arrives safely in Gavin’s arms where he hugs it, drawing Geoff’s attention, too.

“Oh,” Gavin says, “Really? This is the chicken soup for Geoff?”

Geoff’s eyes dart from the soup to Michael.

Michael can feel his face growing redder. He doesn’t even know why he feels embarrassed. It’s completely normal to cook, and it’s pretty normal to cook for friends who are sick, too. Maybe it’s the way Gavin directs everyone’s attention to him, but that isn’t even usually a problem.

Geoff pulls him out of his thoughts: “Did you, Michael?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.” Geoff rubs his forehead, exhaling loud enough that Michael can hear it. “You think I got sick ‘cause of you.”

“You kind of did.”

Geoff lays back his head, letting his hand fall lazily. “...I guess you're right.”

“That was nice of you,” Ryan adds. The words sound a bit strange coming from a man whose face is painted so that he could be coming straight out of a horror movie, but they are appreciated all the same.

Michael takes the seat Geoff offers him, sinks into the soft cushions where they are already warm from body heat. He’s close to Geoff on his right, Gavin on his left, the two of them radiating their own auras, and Geoff smiles at him before Gavin claims his attention again.

“D’ya want me to heat some up for you?”

“Sure,” Geoff replies.

Michael looks from one to the other.

“What? I’m hungry,” Geoff says matter-of-factly.

“And I wanna see if you can cook,” Gavin replies. He practically bounces off the couch. Then he almost trips over Ray, who is still laying on the floor. Michael’s breath gets caught in his throat when, for a long second, Gavin stumbles and jumps, somehow the brit manages to steady himself enough to get into the kitchen without further trouble.

“…He flails around like a bird,” Ryan mutters.

Soon the microwave hums in the kitchen. Geoff’s hand sinks down from the backrest until his fingertips brush against Michael’s shoulder. Warmth radiates from the couch, from the air in the room, from Geoff’s blanket-wrapped body even though it’s several inches away. Maybe Geoff is running a fever, Michael thinks, but there is nothing feverish in his eyes. Blue eyes, Michael notices, and he doesn’t know why he didn’t before. After a moment Geoff looks back. The eye contact isn’t awkward as Michael could have feared. It’s okay. It’s as light as the touch of Geoff’s hand, as easy as the silence between them.

Somewhere in the room Ray sits up and swears softly at his game. Ryan helps him and Jack threatens to push him around, magically or not. That’s all background noise.

Geoff inhales sharply, and the blankets rustle.

For all that he calls Michael _apprentice_ as if he himself was a _master_ and for all that he calls the coven  _his_ , there really isn’t anything too intimidating about him. At least nothing Michael sees. Maybe he could intimidate someone else with those powers that he controls better than Michael does, but it would be very hard for him to threaten anyone who’s seen him like this. Towards his group he acts more like a friend than any kind of leader even though that’s what he is, and maybe it couldn’t be any other way.

There’s a loud _ding_ as the microwave finishes.

Gavin returns triumphant, pushing a bowl into Geoff’s hands before perching on the armrest. Michael pretends he doesn’t care about how his cooking is judged. Instead he decides now would be a great time to check out his phone. He hears no comments about how it looks (he knows that it’s nothing special) or how it tastes. Geoff eats, Michael can hear that, but then he goes silent.

Michael checks his mail even though it’s just spam anyway.

“It tastes okay,” Geoff says. 

“Can I have a sip?” Gavin asks, but the response is curt:

“I’d just infect you.”

“You’re right,” Gavin says, and with that his attention is elsewhere as he joins Ray on the floor.

Michael dares to look up from his phone again. Now that little awkward scene is over. He hopes it’ll do Geoff good, and then he can get on with the afternoon –

“Can I talk to you real quick, Michael?” Geoff asks.

“Uh,” is Michael’s elegant response. “Okay?”

Instead of taking hold of him, Geoff just gestures towards the hallway. Michael gets up easy, but Geoff has to unwrap the blanket cocoon he’s made. He even carries a blanket with him as a cape across his shoulders as he leads Michael away from the main room. They don’t go far, stopping by one of the closed doors. Again Michael wonders about what lies behind the locks.

Geoff leans against the wall. With the way he crosses his arms in front of him and looks at Michael, there is something almost conspiratorial about the situation. He licks his lips. Speaks softly even though surely nobody in the living room is capable of hearing the two of them above the noise of their own voices.

“The food,” Geoff begins. “Did you…?”

“Did I what?”

Geoff looks away as if the dust in the air was interesting. “Did you use magic?”

The way he says it, as if embarrassed to ask, suddenly makes Michael wonder if he has committed some sort of faux pas. “Why…? I mean, yes, but…”

“How did I know?” Geoff asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah. Can you just, I don’t know-” Michael shrugs, “Sense it?”

The sunlight coming through the windows on top of the stairs is golden on Geoff’s skin. It doesn’t remove the ragged, ill effect of the blankets and the rawness of his voice, but it helps. “No,” he says. “It had a _very_ distinct aftertaste of ashes in my mouth. Just terrible.”

Michael almost bites down on his lip, caught in sudden frustration – “Come on, really?!”

Geoff takes a step closer. “Whoa, what’s that about?” His eyes dart to Michael’s side where his hands are balled into fists.

“I was just pretty _pleased_ with myself since I didn’t set it on fire like _everything else_ , that’s what.” Michael wonders if he sounds childish. If any of the others in Geoff’s circle have had their own temper tantrums while their powers were as foreign to them as Michael’s are to him now. But maybe that’s part of what drives him to this outburst: it seems to him, when he turns his head and peeks into the living room through the crack in the door, that they all must have had an easier time at it than him. “And then the taste was ashes, of course. More fucking fire. You’re probably not even joking.”

“You can taste if you want,” Geoff offers. 

For a moment Michael stares at his lips. His open mouth. The he diverts his eyes back to the door again. The soup is still in there.

“No,” he says, “I trust you. It’s just-“

 “I just thought I’d let you know. Just wanted to know what kind of spell I ate.”

He stares at Michael, then, who realizes that Geoff does not just presume that the spell was for healing. It could have been anything. It could have been harm, because Michael is already the guy who ruins more than he fixes.

So when Michael says, “It was a healing spell, Geoff, _promise_ ,” a lot more emotion comes into his voice than he intended. He doesn’t want Geoff to think even for a moment that Michael would harm him.

Geoff smiles briefly, little wrinkles forming by the edge of his eyes before it’s gone again. “Thanks, then.” He clears his throat. “Although as your… as your _something_ in this realm of magical powers I strongly suggest you get someone’s consent before casting any sort of thing on them, yeah?”

“Got it.” Michael tells himself not to scowl like a child being admonished. It works. It helps that the fact that they are already walking back into the warmth and light and scent of the living room makes everything Geoff says feel more like a tip from one friend to the other.

 

Afterwards, Geoff discretely packs the bowl of soup away. Michael sits on his own, watching a dark blue candle in the windowsill burn down. He dips a fingertip into the melted stearin. It burns for a second, coating his skin.

"Hey, Michael."

Gavin's voice.

Michael looks down and sees Gavin staring expectantly up before returning his attention to a little ball of water in his hands. He makes it float an inch or two above the palmd. At the same time gravity is exerting its force on it as it refuses to remain a perfect sphere, constantly moving this way or that, expanding and contracting and dripping onto the carpet. Gavin’s lips move silently until he asks, “Neat party trick, innit?”

“That’s actually pretty cool,” Michael says. He crouches down so that his eyes are level with the ball of water. Reflected sunlight bounces off the droplets, sometimes shining into Michael’s eyes but mostly just painting needle-points of shimmering yellow on the walls.

Geoff joins Michael nearer the floor. “I could teach you that,” he says, and he reaches slowly for the ball. After a moment of eye contact with Gavin, he whispers “Come here, now, “ and the water obliges – it wobbles and spills a bit between their hands, but soon it is secure above Geoff’s palm. “It’s just going a bit further with the levitation thing.”

“And I can do that…” Michael begins.

“So you can do this.”

“You can do it with fire, too,” Gavin adds.

Out of the corner of his eye, Michael sees Ray pump his fist in the air. “Fireballs, Michael!”

“Do you just summon it out of nothing or do you have to carry around a flame _Last Airbender_ -style?” 

Ray answers with a groan – “God, that movie was terrible. So no, even though it is harder, you summon it out of nothing _on pure principle_.” Ray sits up straight. “It just makes you a bit hungrier, that’s all. Energy into magic is energy out of you, ‘cause just because we’re making magical goddamnn fireballs doesn’t mean we have to get _unscientific_.”

“God forbid,” Ryan agrees.

That settled, Michael resumes staring at the way the water ripples. The way Geoff’s fingers move as if steadying it. The black drawings on those fingers.

“I’d like to learn that,” Michael says, “Seems like a cool party trick.”

Geoff turns his eyes down, smiling. “I'll teach, if you want. _God_ , all the things you could do… Could, um, someone get me a bowl for the water?”

Gavin places the heavy ceramic bowl that had previously towered on the table into Geoff’s lap. Slowly, the older man guides the liquid down until he lets it fall. It splashes against the sides, the sound joining that of Geoff's relieved exhalation.

“Anyway,” he says, wiping his hands on his pants, “I-I think it was you, Ryan who had something you needed a hand with?”

“Let me just get my bags…” Ryan replies. As soon as he’s out of the room, Michael hears Gavin mutter –

“Wonder what he’s brought to show and tell this time.”

“I liked the time he brought the skull,” Jack says.

Ryan raises his voice in the hall - “Did anyone ask about the skull?!”

“No!” is Gavin’s reply, “Nobody is talking about your creepy companion!”

“He has a name, you know!”

“Fuck if I care to remember it!”

Ryan, now carrying a duffel bag, appears in the doorway with a – perhaps feigned - disappointed look on his face. Weeds spill from the open zipper of his bag. His face looks skull-like, the makeup accentuating bones and shadows. “You’re hurting my feelings, Gavin.”

Gavin snorts and pulls his legs up, almost kicking Michael in the head in the process.

Ryan gets to work slowly and methodically. He covers the table with cloth, brushing away the creases. The drawn circle is surrounded by Latin words, and the general mystical effect of the tableau is not diminished when he starts to lay out plants one by one, saying their names quietly to himself as he goes. Blue Flag goes next to sickly-looking reed canary grass and strips of birch. A bundle of cattails stay in the bag, deep brown tops peeking up and out.

Geoff leans forward, investigating the plants, occasionally reaching out to touch a leaf or turn a flower. “These are all… wealth?” he asks, “Luck? Water?”

“Pretty much,” Ryan answers, his long fingers tracing a murky green leaf. “Mostly wealth, though.”

“There are easier ways,” Ray comments. He has perked up a bit, more interested in what Ryan is doing.

“You’ve got to do it for the challenge sometimes,” Ryan says. “And this should be pretty potent.”

Gavin smiles smugly. “Ryan the millionaire.”

“Maybe.”

“All of you, quiet,” Geoff demands, and leaning forward over the table he looks Ryan in the eye. “So, what’s supposed to happen here?”

Ryan straightens his back. “Step one is the circle that I’ve already drawn.”

“Looks about right. Sigils?”

“Copied from the grimoire. I didn’t try to make my own, so-“

“I’m sure that’s not where the problem is.” Geoff looks about as focused as Michael supposes he can get. “Go on.”

“Well, the incantation is Latin, and I think I’m pronouncing it right, and the plants are to be laid out like this…” Ryan gestures to the table. “I don’t know if you’ve dealt with anything like it, but nothing happened as far as I could tell.”

“Maybe you just haven’t given it enough time.”

“…It didn’t feel right.” Ryan licks his lips before continuing. “You know, usually I’d have tinkered on with it alone or called up Ray. This… this was different. “

Geoff raises his hand to his chin, thinking. Michael can do little but watch, having no advice to offer.

“You could give it a go again if we-“Geoff looks around at the others, gaze lingering at Gavin – “If we can be _quiet_ around you.”

Ryan nods, but is hesitant to actually do anything. He stands still, staring at the table. Then he clears his throat and starts sifting through his backpack for a page torn from a notebook. There’s a _clack_ when Ray snaps his DS shut. Then silence. Then the paper, crinkling as Ryan unfolds it. He checks that the herbs are laid out properly, pushing them completely into the circle, ripping off a small leaf that juts out over the edge.

“So,” he says. “Here goes nothing.”

Geoff, arms crossed, observes intently.

Ryan takes a blackened leaf from one of the flowers and places it under his tongue.

There’s a compass that he has laid out on the corner of the table, and after consulting it he turns his face northward. The others shuffle out of the way as Ryan starts walking, making a lap around the table. Four times – one for each cardinal direction, Michael guesses – he stops and closes his eyes. Breathes a heavy, audible breath. When he is back where he started he places a hand on either side of the drawn circle.

Than he speaks.

Ryan’s voice sounds different when he speaks Latin – it grows somehow deeper and louder, reminding Michael of the way an actor might speak on stage. And sure, there’s probably an element of performance in what Ryan does now, because there’s no way he’s not trying to impress the others while he chants. Eventually he ceases to notice the paper, remembering the words instead. His hands trace slow circles above the table, gestures in complicated patterns.

Something stirs in Michael. The feeling that springs from the center of the table, Ryan’s palms and his chanting voice is so much like a high that Michael doesn’t know what to do with it. His skin prickles, his mouth goes dry. Now he understands (or at least thinks he understands) the draw of doing large, complicated rituals: the amount of power used is intoxicating to feel. If he wanted to, he knows now that he could easily pour himself into this feeling and help, and that that must be how you work together.

(Was this what Geoff felt, sitting in front of Michael out in the woods? When Michael closed his eyes, did Geoff watch him, knowing?)

And then everything gets a little off.

Like a wrong line, a smudged word in the script mispronounced, sending the actor stumbling.

Ryan falters for a moment, looking up at Geoff as if asking for help. A soft glow around his hands fades slowly, and suddenly Michael hears Gavin retch violently beside him.

A moment after Michael is hit too, something sour and faintly nauseating hitting his stomach. He feels like he’s going to throw up. It lasts only a moment, but it is enough to rattle him. He can’t swallow it down; the taste remains.

Ryan lets go, and the magic ebbs away. He whispers a few words and makes a single broad movement with his hand before he takes a step back. Then he looks over the table, at the other’s faces.

“It feels wrong,” he states. “Just wrong. You felt it too, right?”

Geoff nods.

“And I did it right.”

“Did you,” Geoff begins, pausing before starting anew – “Did you feel like it came from _you_ or from somewhere else?”

“Somewhere else.” He sinks back onto a chair looking quite defeated. “It’s like there’s something in the roots.”

“The roots…” Geoff mutters. He rubs his eyes. “If it’s money, I’m sure we can scrape together for you.”

“It’s not that. I just wanted to try if I could make this _work_. It’s intricate, and I basically dug it out of a tome, Geoff. I want to try-”

“I know.”

Ryan folds his arms looking nowhere but at the plants. “But you don’t know what might be wrong?”

“Nope,” Geoff answers quickly, “No idea. I promise I’ll think about a better answer.”

Silence. Then, Gavin takes it upon himself to draw a conclusion to the whole affair:

“That was weird,” he declares, taking a sip of his drink. “Better luck next time.”

Ryan’s shoulders slump.

 

Once the can is emptied, Gavin places it back on the table with a hollow clack. A few drops of coke stain Ryan’s rolled up cloth, but Ryan and Geoff are lost in conversation by the window, and neither of them notice.

At the end of their conversation, Ryan opens the shutters and the last light of the day floods the room.


	5. Lazy Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Different POV this time! Also, not a lot of plot.  
> All Geoff's mugs are from zazzle.com. They exist in real life.

Geoff feels like he lives his life constantly moving from peak to lull, never just at the golden mean.

He is either saying too much or nothing at all. His house is built for the interplay between silence and sound: the rooms are small enough to make everything neat and cozy and to make any uttered word nothing but a friendly afterthought.  Then the front door slams so heavily after the last visitor that the echo exacerbates the emptiness of the house. The floorboards creak loudly when he walks on his own. He feels isolated when he wakes on the edge of his bed, and he can lie there listening to the old walls groan for hours.

He groans like the house when he gets up, bones rolling in their sockets, pressing towards his skin. 

His tongue is still sharp, though.

Once or twice a month he takes the long drive upstate, tapping on the steering wheel and humming absently along to the radio, no words in him, nothing to say before he reaches his destination. When he find the house of an old friend, the words will flow. He’ll crack his jokes, have his laughs, feel at ease. Business never really feels like business when it’s all between friends. (Geoff knows many entrepreneurs, attracts them like moths to a flame – or maybe it’s the other way around. People like Hullum and Heyman and Ellis, selling herbs, oils, books and blessings. Rites done for ready money. Geoff was always a bit behind, because he made friends before he made customers).

Often, other people knock on _his_ door. Usually it's Gavin, who comes over just because he's bored. The two of them have entire notebooks that they’ve filled out together with theories and ideas. They make plans that are too big for them, but they are a nice distraction all the same.

Ryan comes by every once in a while, usually in the morning. If Geoff’s magic is a little crooked, a little off, then it is because he has cut too many corners. Every spell that Ryan casts is spectacular in its slow, methodical refusal to skip anything. Geoff figures Ryan gets a kick out of acting like a warlock. He speaks of forces and gifts as if they were bestowed by – not God, but gods, maybe, or dark things. Sometimes he scares Geoff. Mostly, he’s nice. He leaves behind a can of diet coke on the table after his visits, a more mundane calling card than the scent of dried flowers that accompanies him.

Jack brings the groceries Geoff forgets to buy, and occasionally there's a cheap paperback novel among the food. (“Don’t get too caught up in what you’re doing,” he says, looking at Geoff all concerned. Geoff can’t explain why he absolutely _must_ let his projects consume him). When Jack drops by, the meeting is almost a ritual – a conversation over coffee or herbal tea or beer, depending on the mood and the day. Sometimes they test out the draughts that Jack brings along. Geoff starts on the novel just to show Jack that it's appreciated, and sooner or later he finds himself engrossed in it. They part late.

And then there’s Ray, who comes rarely to Geoff’s house, but sends pictures to let him know how things are going anyway. Little question marks along the images of runes, asking _am I doing this right?_ The answer is usually always yes, but Geoff appreciates it anyway.

Most of what they talk about, the five of them, isn’t even magic. There is more than that one thing that connects them. Months, years of conversations and afternoons spent together. Common interests, common thoughts.

But Michael…

Michael doesn't just drop by. Geoff wants him to. If Michael was as familiar as the others, his house would be filled with a little more light. Geoff wants to get to know him.  

What does he feel for the boy?

(He keeps thinking _boy_ , even though Michael isn’t one anymore. Probably hasn’t been for a long time).

Michael is young and he has powers that he doesn’t understand. He has fire in his hands and in his head. No idea what he’s doing with it. Nor, from what Geoff can gather, what he’s doing with his life in general.

But no, Geoff decides, _pity_   would be wrong. That's not the right word for the emotion that makes him want Michael closer. 

Then what?

He’s unsure.

 

He tries not to dwell on questions too much. Especially not questions about Michael. After all, he assures himself, Michael fits in pretty well with the rest of the group, and they are all slowly earning each other’s trust. He's going to be fine. And the other shadowy things at the back of Geoff's mind can wait, too, it's no use thinking all the time –

He tries not to dwell on questions too much, and usually he succeeds.

 

Geoff spends the entire Friday morning in a haze, moving from bed to couch to shadowy garden, forgoing coffee because he doesn’t really want to be awake. All he seeks to be is a mess of senses, flowing like a lazy river over the expanse of hours. Cozy in his jacket, he sits under the sad, bent shape of the pear tree. He almost gets to the point where there is nothing but the feeling of the wind against his skin, his back against bark and the back of his hand against his eyes. Today the sky is the color of his unwashed, grey t-shirt, clouds like stains and the sun peeking through the worn holes. Even so, the light is annoying when you are inches away from a hangover. Bad habits make themselves known.

He is content there all the same. A certain warmth emanates from the tree, from the safety sigils in the bark. Black charcoal lies low in the ridges, somehow not faded even though it must be at least two or three years since he made them. He never gets the chance to remember exactly – probably couldn’t even if he wanted, dazed as he is – because he hears the doorbell ring inside the house. He picks himself up and straightens his back. Hears an audible crack from his spine. He walks through the tall, unkempt grass, feeling the dew seep through the bottom of his jeans. In the hallway, he considers casting a quick glamour spell as he sees his disheveled hair in the mirror, but then there is more insistent knocking and another ring of the bell telling him his guest is growing impatient.

Geoff opens the door slowly and sees Gavin.

“…Good morning,” he says.

“It’s hardly morning now, is it?” Gavin responds. “Can I come in?”

Geoff takes a step back.

Gavin strides in past him and kicks off his shoes without a second thought. He belongs in this house, Geoff thinks as he watches Gavin saunter around. He does not linger in the entryway, but makes a beeline for the kitchen.

“You have coffee, right?” he asks, already looking through the cabinets. Geoff can hear glass bottles clinking against each other and spice bottles rattling as Gavin’s searching hands roam past them.

“I do,” Geoff responds.

“Where is it then?” Gavin’s voice sounds annoyed, but tired too. He closes the cabinet door, turning to look at Geoff whose breath is stuck in his throat for a little moment.

Gavin is pale. He was pale at the door, but Geoff had believed that to be a trick of the light or just normal exhaustion. Now Gavin looks downright ill, and the whiteness of his skin makes the red running down his chin so much more vivid.

“You’ve- You’ve got a nosebleed, Gav.”

Gavin raises a hand to his face. It comes away stained, red smeared across both his fingers and his mouth. It drips down his hand, wrist, and forearm. It falls in droplets onto the linoleum floor. He looks at the blood, then up at Geoff again. “Oh,” he says. “That’s… Ew.”

The hand falls limply back by his side.

“What did you do?” Geoff takes a step closer and – hesitantly, because he doesn’t want to make any sudden movements when Gavin is swaying like this, probably only still standing because of his left hand on the cabinet handle – places his hands on Gavin’s shoulders. Holds him still. “Tell me what happened.”

“I had a shit morning.” Gavin shakes his head slowly. “I came here to borrow a couch because I was… I was so tired. I think I’ll… go ahead with that. Maybe it’s more urgent than I thought.”

“Good idea. Lie down for a bit.”

Geoff manages to guide Gavin to the couch and get him down. He fetches a box of tissues too, but Gavin insists that he doesn’t need a pillow or a blanket – “I’m not ill, Geoff, stop being a nanny” –though eventually he goes quiet, letting out a small sigh when his head touches the armrest. He looks up at Geoff with eyes that are not feverish, but clear and lucid, saying, “Go make some coffee. For both of us. You look like you could use a pick-me-up, too.”

Geoff runs a hand through his hair. “Do I look bad?”

“Not worse than usually. I’ve had a shit morning too,” Gavin says, grinning.

“My morning wasn’t actually all that bad.” Geoff retreats to the kitchen, waving his hand to summon the grounds from a drawer. His kitchen smells of spilled spices and rosewater pouring from a knocked down bottle. He cleans with a whispered word, letting the mess take care of itself while he talks. “But yours?”

“I…” Gavin begins. “I accidentally magic’ed a whole road. It made me tired.”

Geoff looks up from the filters and cups and sees Gavin rub his eyes and reach for another tissue as his nosebleed continues. “How does that _happen_?”

“Well, I was just _crossing the road_ , you see?” Something indignant creeps into Gavin’s voice. “And then I… I spaced out. I heard a weird noise, right? Got right scared out of my mind. Lost control. Before I knew it the whole street was in slow-mo and I just-”

Silence for a little while. Clicking, buzzing as Geoff works. An aroma of coffee starts to spread in the small kitchen.

“It got a smidge out of control.” Gavin laughs, lightly and briefly. Then he stops suddenly. When Geoff looks into the living room, he can see Gavin’s eyes fixed on the sky outside the window. The sunlight that covers his face is slightly distorted by the dirt and grease on the glass, and Geoff vows that he’ll clean it later. “It looked pretty cool though.”

"Mhm?”

“Just a bunch of things I could see as I crossed the street. There was a lady dropping her bag and I could see all the little bits of paper floating out. Some funny faces – you should’ve seen the man on the bicycle, he was scared out of his bloody mind - and I could see every single feather moving on the birds and just – there was _so much_.”

“And the noise?”

“It was like this deep… rumble, sort of. Like someone was demolishing a building underground. Like just before a train comes, only more sudden. I don’t know. It stopped quickly, and then I just sat down on the spot and thought ‘Welp, there goes that day’. Felt like passing out, thought I'd get to you 'cause I was close and... Yeah.”

Geoff finds two mugs and, upon inspecting them, realizes that he has no idea how either of them came into his possession. The larger one bears the inscription “ _Witches brew”,_ misspelling and all. Probably one of Ray’s gifts. He can’t remember. Regardless, it was Gavin who started the trend of giving Geoff ugly ironic mugs for Christmas, so he’s to blame for all of it anyway. 

The second mug bears the inscription _“I’m magic in a kitchen”_  on a halloween-orange background. Geoff decides that it is easier go give Gavin a little caffeine than to endure the question of _why not_ if he doesn’t. Gavin is bound to fall asleep any minute anyway.

Geoff can feel it, when he hands Gavin the mug.

Because usually, Geoff can sense magic. He feels it as something in the air brushing against his body - and occasionally, when just tired enough, he sees it as auras, blurry streaks across the world. Being near it makes his fingertips tingle and his head turn light in a good way.

Gavin’s Gift is the color of green sea-water, and when he is in the house, Geoff feels it through the walls. He can tell whether Gavin has left the guest bedroom in the morning by the presence or absence of it. It fills the empty space, strangely comforting. Now, he can hardly feel Gavin there at all. The remaining magic he has is curled around his core, tightly wound. He has spent too much energy in too short a time, and the remains has retreated like a weak animal.

“I should get you some sugar, too,” Geoff offers, “Easy calories.”

“That’d be swell.” Gavin says, his words muffled by the fact that he has turned his head into the couch cushion.

“You just relax for as long as you need. It’s going to come back if you just give it time, okay?”

“Mmph.”

“You got the nosebleed under control?”

“Mhm. Yes. I’m not bleeding on th’ couch at least.”

Geoff leaves Gavin for a moment to search through his cupboards. He finally finds the box of energy bars that he keeps around for the exact purpose of helping with what Gavin is going through. He grabs a liberal handful.

“I hope you’re not allergic to, um… Almonds.”

Geoff places an energy bar in the empty hand that Gavin holds out. He then sinks down in a chair, leaning back as he listens to the sound of the wrapper opening and Gavin mumbling.

“No. Thanks, Geoff. For letting me stay.”

Geoff leans forward, his elbows on his knees. “I was going to have guests anyway,” he says, “Michael texted me.”

“Oh.” Gavin doesn’t stop chewing while he talks. “How’re things going between you?”

“Oh. It seems… It seems fine.” Geoff nods slowly even though Gavin isn’t watching – maybe he just does it to feel the calming, rocking motion. “We’re doing basics. How to manipulate things and energies. How to enter a trance. And such. I was going to teach him how to cast a circle today.”

“Don’t bother stopping anything ‘cause of me.” Gavin shifts on the couch so that it creaks under his weight. Lying on his back, he looks lazily at the palm of his hand and the trail of rust down his fingers. He yawns. “I’m just going to lay here feeling like a dead battery.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Geoff retorts, “I was planning on just shoving you into the guest room so we’d have some peace and quiet until we were done.”

“Oh come on,” Gavin says. There’s not any real annoyance in him, though, for soon he’s smiling again. “I like him. He’s bound to be good with explosions. That would look excellent in slow-mo, I bet.”

“Maybe.” Geoff considers this – the many ways Michael, fully realized, could work with the rest of them. He imagines Michael and Gavin, billowing smoke and darting flames, pictures and videos of red and orange filmed with Gavin’s childish glee. Michael letting his passion flow into Ray’s detached new creations or Ryan’s slow affairs. Maybe he’d happily ingest the things Jack brews out of his backyard – but first, he reminds himself, the basics. No doubt Michael could do these things now, if he wanted to, no doubt these lessons are in some way a needless precaution - but Geoff still wants to.

Because Geoff still remembers the four-or-so times when he was younger where he almost sold his soul– and while he has his doubts about the existence of angels and demons, he knows that it could only hurt to swear away something like that in blood.

He remembers how he had been Gavin’s figurative _dead battery_ but without knowing _why_. He had feared that he was losing his powers or his health.

He remembers that nobody taught him how to muffle noise and make a sanctum of your space before working. He remembers being fifteen when a yell or a slamming door would make him knock over candles, lose words, screw up a spell. Kill a cat instead of healing it.

All the others have similar stories - but Michael isn't going to have any as long as Geoff can help it.

Gavin’s voice cuts through the fog. “Are you okay too? You’re kinda frozen there…”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

Gavin yawns. “Good, because I think I’m going to fall asleep now…”

Geoff smiles at him and gives him a patronizing pat on the head. “Knock yourself out.”

Then the room falls silent.

If Geoff is to be honest, Gavin’s visit and the subsequent activity has spurred him to a strangely productive mood. He certainly does not feel like returning to the garden, because now he’d just be _thinking_ too much out there. He might as well use the time until Michael arrives constructively.

Picking up a piece of chalk from another tacky mug - _"Stand back, I'm going to try magic!"_ \- that contains all the writing utensils he has no place for, Geoff leaves Gavin to get some sleep. He heads outside and starts making his usual rounds. He checks that the wards on frame of the front door are still clear. He brushes away the branches and leaves that have blown into the protective circle that surrounds his property. Half the time he feels paranoid, but the other half he can't help but feel that there might actually _be_ something dark and insidious just out beyond the fine white line. Maybe his neighbours feel the same, only _they_ rely on their picket fences and trimmed hedges to keep the nameless evils at bay. 

Geoff feels something crawling on his back, his sixth sense digging its claws into him.  _The evil is out there_ , it declares, _you are right to be worried._ Geoff presses two fingers to a tattoo on his shoulder - a sigil of protection ages old - and tells himself that everything is going to be all right. The ink moves, agitated by his emotion, as unpredictable as ever as it turns and twists. It tickles a little. Then it calms down, and Geoff stares at his house and deems it safe for now.

He wanders back inside, then from the living room into the hallway, one hand on the wall.

He enters the room he has no name for. It lies just to the right of the stairs.

It had been an office for the previous owners of the house, and Geoff had kept the desk. Though it is a small space, it is well lit, sunlight coming in through a window half-opened so that the smell inside never grows stale. It is a place meant for clean, simple office work, the walls a light grey and the shelves ready for manuals and big red binders. Geoff traces the edge of the metal desk with his hand, bumping against branches and acorns and small stone sigils on the way.

He uses the room for something else.

Now the light comes in just right and reflects in the colored glass on the shelves. Red and green rebounds scatter over floors and walls and Geoff’s skin. He takes a seat in the cheap desk chair cushioned with an inherited, ugly cat blanket and stretches his fingers. There before him lies a mess of leaves and nature. Little bits of bronze and silver gleam in the sun. He knows every texture by heart as he starts to tie little knots of twine. Pyramids. Circles.

A post-it note taped to the wall offers encouragement by way of a scrawled date and Heyman’s comments – _a boy afraid of thunderstorms,_ or _luck for a business merger_ , or _I need four amulets for a woman in Maine._

Geoff takes the oak and birch and the ash-wood and carves runes into them. Everyone can put wood and knife together, but it takes a Gift to make the runes matter. Luck is four lines in the right order with the right intent or it won’t work. He whispers while he crafts, fingers going back over the etched lines to dust away the splinters.

He ties the colour of joy around the amulet. Fuses amber to the hollow he has carved with his Gift with the simple wish that it shall stay there and do good. Captures a little bit of sun inside the glass beads.

He holds the finished amulet up in front of him. It is perhaps one and a half inches long, wood and amber and string and wishes. He places it in a little bag and writes a number on it. He has five of those baggies now, meaning a trip to deliver them to someone who will send them onwards to their buyers might soon be in order.

There’s something very satisfying about that.

Next to the amulets are the bundles of home-grown herbs. 

Geoff takes a leaf from a plastic bag by his side. It is grey and brown with age, but he wills it green and fresh. Makes it stay that way. Then he gets out needle and thread and loses himself, unable to remember when he last gave himself proper _time_ to do this as he starts on another man’s lucky charm. 

* * *

 The doorbell rings again.

Michael arrives, and the weather has made a red mess of him. His hair is whipped in front of his face and his pink, wind-beaten cheeks. His jacket is all wrinkles, and he takes it off as soon as he steps through the front door. Geoff sees Michael’s fingers linger on the coat hook, almost caressing the wood where use has made it blank and shiny. Beneath the jacket is a t-shirt bearing the logo of a band that Geoff doesn’t know, but kind of wishes he did.

“Sorry, I’m a bit tired,” Michael confesses, “Education, you know?”

And Geoff is glad when Michael doesn’t wait for an answer, because he doesn’t know.

Michael is the emissary of a world outside the front door where young people like him listen to new bands and learn new things, leading a life Geoff knows only from sporadic comments.

Instead of greeting Michael, Geoff just says, “Gavin is in there, by the way.”

Michael shrugs. He’s probably used to it by now, Gavin hanging around the house as much as he does.

Gavin greets Michael with a small wave.

“Lazy day, huh?” is Michael’s comment.

“More like a cautionary tale,” Geoff says. “That’s what happens when you use more magic than you have.”

“It was an accident,” Gavin mumbles, turning over to his side to look out at the guest. “Really, Geoff, I’m not a couch-potato on purpose.” His voice is slurred, and he falls back asleep a moment later.

“Of course,” Geoff says casually, laying hand on Michael’s shoulder as if that can be casual, too. He immediately feels the warmth of Michael’s body, the bone and the muscle, and the way Michael doesn’t tense. That’s either the best or the worst of it. “C’mon, Michael, we’re going to need a little space for this.”

Michael looks out the window at the sorry excuse for a back yard. “Garden?”

“Sure. Garden.” Unwilling to let his hand linger, Geoff gives Michael an awkward, slow pat on the shoulder. “The garden is fine.”

 

The air is still brisk and cold; the trees are crowned with mazes of black branches and pale mistletoe. The shadow that falls on Michael’s face is crosses and corners, thin and dark as the sun fights to reach the ground through the twigs. Geoff points to the pale leaves clinging to a bough on his oak, saying, “In Nordic mythology, they used mistletoe to kill the god of light.”

Michael huffs. “Impressive.”

They stand for a moment on the soft, too-long grass. Michael sways.

“You actually do look really tired,” Geoff remarks.

“After school I had to do some job hunting.” Michael takes a few steps with his hands in his pockets, acting like he’s distracted by the bushes with all their variety of herbs haphazardly strewn about. Or maybe he actually does care about botany. Or maybe he just cares about the garden because it is Geoff’s.

 _(Or maybe I should just stop reading into things_ , Geoff reprimands himself.)

“You’re out of a job?”

“Mhm,” Michael answers.

“I’d wish you good luck, but I’d rather that you learn how to make your own,” Geoff says. “It’s only a little complicated.”

“Yeah?” Michael shrugs. “Let’s do it.”

“First things first.” Geoff stops by a patch of even lawn. “I was thinking I was going to teach you some tools you can use for, um, more complicated stuff. Like casting a circle the way you saw Ryan do it the other day. Clearing you mind.” He’s suddenly too self-conscious, hands restless as he speaks because Michael’s eyes are on him. “I don’t know if it’s strictly necessary, but you might want to know-“

Michael steps closer, shoulders still relaxed. The wind plays with his curls. “It’s fine. I trust you on this.”

“Okay.” Geoff takes a deep breath. “Okay.”

He has been working here enough times that he remembers which way is north. Michael follows his stare all the way out through past the hedge and the neighbor’s fence, across the row of backyards out where it all becomes road and blue sky above.

“You make an area that is sanctified for you,” Geoff explains. Inwardly, he grimaces at his words. It sounds too much like he’s trying to act smarter than he is. “So you spend a moment just closing your eyes and focusing on your breathing, and then you walk in a circle to, uh, mark the area.”

“Mhm.”

“And then you _will_ this area to be undisturbed and help you focus on your spell.”

“Think, walk, wish. Got it.” Michael yawns.

To Geoff it is almost mechanical. Old patterns, familiar movements, a state of mind as easy as anything – but Michael fumbles his way through at first. Geoff stands behind him, but he is afraid to speak up. Then Michael’s tense muscles start to relax, and his breathing calms as he falls into the familiar trance-like state.

He takes slow steps in a small circle. With his eyes closed, he looks all serene, and Geoff becomes afraid of disturbing him.

It’s a pretty picture: Michael against the blue sky and the green of the yard, eyelashes casting shadows over his cheeks. Hands relaxed, limp by his sides. Face downturned and eyes closed as his lips move silently. Geoff cannot read them, but he can feel that Michael’s power is flowing gently outwards. It fades into the grass. It makes even Geoff feel calmer.

As far as he can tell, it’s going well.

Michael takes four steps more, retracing the circle. He looks to Geoff then, quizzically, and Geoff gestures for him to step inside the ring of downtrodden grass.

Michael does so, and then he looks Geoff in the eye. “Is this right?”

“I think it is. Doesn’t it feel better?”

Michael takes a deep breath. Geoff can see the rise and fall of his chest beneath the t-shirt.

“It does,” Michael says. “Like… it’s a lot more quiet inside the circle? It could just be placebo effect.”

“That doesn’t make it less real, does it? As long as you feel that it’s quieter, it helps.”

“That’s one way to look at it, sure.”

Geoff has no doubts that Michael managed to do something. He presses his palm to the grass and feels the energy in it, flowing from the circle of Michael’s footsteps. This magic feels like smoke when it billowed up through Geoff’s arm, hitting him and enveloping too quickly. He can imagine being consumed completely by it – standing next to Michael at the height of the other’s power would probably have him tasting charcoal.

He wants that, but for now he straightens his back. “Good, then-“

“Let me show you something,” Michael suggests. “I tinkered with Gavin’s trick.” Though he crosses his arms and stands casually, Geoff can see a spark of something almost childish in his eyes and he can’t remember when he last felt excited himself about moving water around.

“Of course,” he says. “I’ll get some water for us.”

“I can-“  
“You, um, shouldn’t leave the circle until after you’ve done the spell and broken it properly. Or you’ll have to cast it all over again. And I haven’t taught you to break it right.”

Michael stares at his feet, then at Geoff in disbelief. A little crease forms between his eyebrows. “You’re telling me I’m stuck here.”

“Yes.”

A breeze blows through, sending a momentary chill down Geoff’s spine and a brown leaf into Michael’s hair.

And with that, Geoff turns on his heel and fetches the water. He hears a half-mumbled “Fuck that” from behind him. And when he returns, Michael still looks a little angry. Just a soft, shimmering annoyance that fades the moment Geoff hands him the bowl. Michael places it in the grass.

Then, he closes his eyes. His hand is outstretched, his fingers tense and stiff above the surface of the water. There are sharp angles at the bones and knuckles, little smears of freckles and colors. There are deep lines across his palm – Geoff takes a few steps away. It’s supposed to look like he’s giving Michael peace to work in, but he himself is the one who needs peace.

For a moment, he was wondering what it would be like to kiss Michael’s palm. _  
_

_How could he dare to think that?_

His back to the Michael, Geoff watches the pear tree sway. It takes two deep breaths before he lets himself hear anything but the breeze through the leaves.

“Look.”  
  
Geoff turns back around. The water is now hovering in a sort-of spherical shape between Michael’s hands. Michael himself is only just glancing up, as if afraid of letting his concentration lapse for even a second.

“It seems fine,” Geoff says.

Michael smiles. He locks eyes with Geoff as he raises his arms towards a sky the color of brittle steel. The water bubbles – it is boiling, little drops of it leaving the shape to hover on their own. The droplets rise and rise. Meters above the both of them the water dissolves into prisms. Small individual raindrops suspended in the air. They gleam with sunlight that is too weak to be noticed except for in those small points; they dance on the wind.

Small round shadows lie on Michael’s cheeks like freckles, and next to them are brighter spots of light reflected from the water. The chalk line has become a barrier around him, and Geoff knows that Michael would hardly hear him now if he spoke.

Hands weave patterns in the air and the droplets follow. A cloud, a breeze between the lights. Geoff can see Michael straining. Just a twitch of his eye and the way his hands start to tremble. “Is it hard for you?”

At first, there is no answer. Michael’s attention must be spread evenly between the countless droplets, but some of them are starting to fall like rain.

“Michael?”

He sounds out of breath when he speaks. “It was easy to do. Hard to maintain.”

“I can help you, if you want,” Geoff offers. He doesn’t know what to do with his eyes. Can’t decide whether to stare at the magic spectacle or Michael, the curves of his arms and the look in his eyes.

“That’d be nice.”

And suddenly Geoff feels like he’s on thin ice. He reaches forward and finds it hard to close those last centimeters between his hands and Michael’s.

“Can I…?”

“Mhm.”

Then at last he can feel Michael’s skin, and beyond that - an electrical buzz of magic.

He looks up to see Michael blinking owlishly, slowly. Now, he does not shy away from the touch.

“There,” Geoff says. He lets his power travel through his arms and veins into Michael’s. The air suddenly smells of smoke. Heat bellows softy out and reaches Geoff’s arms, warming him from the chest and out – Michael’s warmth, his Gift. A feeling the Geoff will be sensing through walls and recognizing as easily as Gavin’s soon enough, and it comes towards him without hestitation. He feels the way Michael keeps fighting to keep the water floating and then slowly takes over.

“I’ll take it, I’ll take it…”

Geoff directs the water away, and if he’s being honest he is very thankful that he has more practice than Michael. Where the boy – the other man – had barely been able to keep it in the air, Geoff can easily hold it without even thinking much about it. That means that the spell does not betray how much of his attention is seized by Michael. He lets the water splash down on the petunias, suddenly remembering that he hasn’t watered them for a week now.

They spend a moment staring at each other, and Michael smiles.

Geoff remembers their hands and lets go quickly, but he doesn’t want his palms to stop feeling this warm, he doesn’t want to let go. It’s a little worrying.

“It went well,” he says. “No fire.”

“And,” Michael continues, “Maybe I couldn’t keep it up, but I did get it started well enough.”

“That’s what she said,” Geoff comments.

Michael just rolls his eyes. “Fuck you,” he says, and it’s the most jovial way Geoff has heard the words said. “I can see how that could be misunderstood, Geoff, but I don’t think it’d be the woman saying that.”

“You never know. Anyway, let’s not discuss dicks.”

“Oh, but when it is it not a time for discussing dicks?” Michael says. “Actually, speaking of, you’re being kind of a dick right now for not letting me out of this circle. What happens if you just step out anyway?”

Geoff is about to reply, but he pauses. “I actually don’t really know. You just don’t.”

Michael taps his foot in exaggerated impatience. “Then teach me, oh whatever-your-title-is.”

Geoff smiles and steps forward. “Tell it to _cease_. Resolve _, recede._ And then, like this-“ Geoff waves his hand slowly in front of him. “The spell shall be lifted.”

Again Geoff regrets that he can’t find the right words. Why is he such a bad teacher? Why does he have to have Michael staring at him, trying to comprehend the instructions?

Michael mutters a word, does the movement. Then he flinches.

“That felt like popping a soap bubble,” he says. “Really, I swear I could hear the pop. In the inside of my ear.”

“Congratulations.” Geoff looks towards the house. The red brick looks pale in the sunlight. “Wanna go inside?”

* * *

Further in, back through the hallway, into the small spaces.

Geoff feels the sunbeam on his back and the sweat in the palm of his hands. They sit in his almost-office. Light catches every speck of dust in the room, falling to the floor in broad lines. The books are in lines, too, uneven on the shelves, and Michael runs his fingers along the spines. Perhaps Geoff only imagines hesitation when Michael pulls a tome out and opens it to a random page.

“These are all yours?” he asks. His voice sounds smaller here in between the silent dust and the floors that for once refuse to creak. The air is too thick to carry sound. Geoff dares to hope it might trap it, that voice and words might be hidden away in corners of the room and echo a little longer after Michael has left.

“They’re mine.”

Michael puts the book back on the shelf. “They look almost as old as you.”

“Thanks,” Geoff replies sarcastically, but he can’t keep it up. Sincere once more, he looks at Michael’s profile against the eggshell wall and says, “You could borrow one, if you want. Ray has introduced you to the modern way, but there are some things that are a little better in print.”

“Maybe I will,” Michael says. He has a look in his eyes that Geoff can’t help but like. It’s something like _wonder_. Impressive, taking into consideration that they’ve just spent upwards of two hours sitting together just talking about all the questions Michael had – physics, senses, tricks, words. Geoff passing on tidbits about the meanings of plants and stars. Michael responding with little noises of affirmation. Geoff has spoken about the need for secrecy, and they have almost laughed as they imagined the chaos that could easily be the result of the world learning about these forces. And besides, Geoff points out, the world would surely be all the poorer for the lack of mystery.

Some selfish part of Geoff wants to withhold answers and guidance from Michael so that he’ll keep coming with his questions and wondrous eyes.

Now, Michael sits next to him at the work table while Geoff keeps his hands busy with sticks and string. He looks to the books again.

“The red ones on the left are different,” Michael says. “They feel weird.”

“Yeah, don’t touch ‘em,” Geoff suggests. “They’re… pretty creepy. Imbue it with enough magic and you can make a book that can make you its bitch if you're not prepared.”

Michael’s eyes dart to the books and back. “No touching,” he says. “Got it.” He leans back in the office chair. It does not creak like it would if it were Geoff, so Michael must be lighter or different in poise.

“Two of them are Ryan’s, actually. I’m just keeping them for him for a bit.”

“He’s creepy too,” Michael says. “In a good way, though.”

“In a good way.”

Geoff looks down and ties up a few more knots.

“You make money selling these?” Michael asks, nodding towards the charms. “Isn’t that a breach of the whole _keeping magic a secret_ thing you just told me about?”

Geoff puts down the twine and the agate, folding his hands instead. “Nah. If you think about it, the only ones who buy these things are either people with the Gift or people who _already_ believe that magic is real. It’s not convincing anybody else.”

“Huh.”

There is a loud snore from the living room.

Michael cracks a smile. “Poor Gavin.”

“I hope you’re learning from his mistake,” Geoff says. He rests an elbow on the table and leans against his hand. “Know your limits.”

“I think I do.” Michael looks away from Geoff. His thumb traces the edge of an amulet on a chain with broken links. “I mean, scrying. That’s one. Can’t do that.” He glances from the jewelry to Geoff’s eyes for a split second. Turns the amulet over in his hand.

“We could always try again. You’re a lot better at calling your powers now than-“

“I don’t want to.” Michael says it so quickly that Geoff drops the subject immediately.

 _Okay_. _Learned that._

“I’m actually pretty impressed by the thing you did with the water,” Geoff says, attempting to reel the conversation in again. “Did you try to harness the fact that it was boiling? Making the evaporated water condense into droplets again?”

“Something like that.”

“Did it just happen or…?”

Michael looks away. “I practiced,” he says, “Sat around with it the last couple nights.”

Geoff almost wants to ask _why_. If it’s just the excitement of being able to, or if he’s-

“I guess I was trying to impress you,” Michael says.

He says it like it doesn’t matter, but something inside Geoff loosens up, and he suddenly feels like he is capable of breathing deeper than usual. The air tastes better, makes him lighter. “I’m flattered,” he says.

Michael shrugs like it doesn’t matter that much, but his eyes are still so bright.

* * *

They have tea, Geoff settled into an armchair and Michael sitting next to Gavin’s sleeping body. He prods at Gavin’s side, but the other doesn’t even stir. Gavin’s head is buried under a couch cushion and his face is turned away. It’s easy to imagine that he’s just a very weirdly shaped pillow.

The tea is bitter, brewed with whole leaves. Geoff wonders if it is too obvious that he’s suspicious of it. It mostly languishes at the back of a drawer – he usually isn't much of a tea drinker when there's coffee to be had - but if he doesn’t use it when he has guests, what good is it?

“I got it from Jack,” he explains. He holds the mug in two hands, warms it with magic and sees Michael copy him with ease.

Michael raises the cup to his lips and takes a long, but careful sip. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand afterwards and declares that it tastes fine. 

“It should have a lot of caffeine in it,” Geoff says.

Michael leans back, crossing his legs and glancing towards Gavin. They sit in silence for a little while. Geoff closes his eyes. Senses.

Gavin finally moves, yawning. He mumbles something incomprehensible, and Michael freezes up, concentrating on not spilling any of his tea while Gavin turns. Soon Gavin’s head is resting half-way into Michael’s lap. He has curled in on himself and around Michael’s body.

“Don’t move,” Gavin murmurs, his voice barely audible. “Warm.”

Michael raises an eyebrow. “…Alright,” he then says, relaxing before he dares to drink again. “I won’t.”

And Gavin spends the next half hour with his head in Michael’s lap in the most innocent, sleepy fashion.

“He’s probably not even aware of it,” Michael points out.

“I almost want to take a picture,” Geoff says.

“Better not. I won’t be able to post it or anything. I’ve a friend who already thinks we’re…”

“What?”

“Dating,” Michael says, and takes a long sip of tea, finishing his cup already and breaking any eye-contact there was. “Absurd, right?”

“Right,” Geoff says. The obvious fact to infer from this is that Michael is single at the moment, and the obvious thing to do with that fact is not thinking too much about it.

The next question out of Michael’s mouth is, “Do you know what time it is?” The look on his face makes it clear that he has just realized that he may be running late for something – Geoff can tell by the sudden little jerk he does when he straightens his back.

Geoff then realizes that he has no watch on. He digs through his pocket for his phone and finally, triumphantly, tells Michael that it is a little past five.

“I should get going,” Michael mutters. “I’ve a friend. We’re studying together. I mean, if I can concentrate. I should…” He does not rise from his seat. He does not make any move at all, only his eyes darting between the door and Geoff’s hand on the phone.

Geoff can almost see the words burning on the boy’s lips. _Or should I?_

He forces himself silent; it’s Michael’s decision to make. As he leafs through one of the books he picked out earlier, he can see Michael fidgeting. Again and again he draws a deep breath about to speak and again and again he falls silent and Geoff feels something like pity. The want and should and can’t collide; the real world calls Michael back again.

“I should go,” Michael finally sighs.

“And I should get started on dinner,” Geoff says.  “So…”

“Yeah. Um. I’ll get going.”

Gavin protests weakly when he is brushed off, but he stops when Michael takes his time to fold up a blanket and lay it out as a replacement.

His hand brushes against the wood of the doorway when he leaves the room and Geoff follows him as if his absence created a vacuum.

 

While Michael finds his things and his shoes, Geoff ignores Gavin and heads into the kitchen. He busies his hands with knives and cutting boards, halfway expecting to hear the door slam any moment now. Instead, he turns around to see Michael in the doorway, _lingering_.

He is even wearing his jacket. He’s supposed to be gone now. He stares at the linoleum and the weird shadows that Geoff knows must be heavy on his face, cast by a lamp that tints everything blue. Geoff wants to know why and what the little circles his fingers trace on the doorframe means, but he can’t make himself ask.

Geoff stands with an onion in his right hand and a leek in his left.

“Changed your mind?” he asks. “Because I could make more if you wanted to stay for dinner.”

The words just tumble down and out past tongue and teeth.

Michael shakes his head. “No, I’m going now. I was just feeling a little spacey.”

“Be careful about your energy,” Geoff says, but somehow he doesn’t really feel that that is the underlying issue, here. Not when the slam of the door echoes like this, the sound pressing Geoff up against the kitchen counter. The whole world lies in the square of the cutting board now, made of straight lines and little pieces and tangible things. He lifts his head once to see Michael out in the driveway, dragging himself to his car.

He looks down to the task at hand, not allowing himself to see the lights head down the street and diminish in the distance.

The stew turns out good.

The smell wakes Gavin up. At first Geoff is scared to let him set the table, but everything turns out fine. Gavin sits on the other side of the table with his knees pulled up to his chin, at first only prodding at the potatoes and playing with his food before he seems to realize how much his body wants the energy. Outside everything steadily grows darker.

Geoff stares into the winter-gloom as he cleans the dishes. His hands go round and round the dinner plates and come up covered in soap and too-hot water.

 


	6. Somewhat Wierd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sexual dreams and shopping adventures.

The test comes back with red marks left and right. Michael stares at the paper, then at Sorola who just raises his eyebrows.

“You know, I think you can do better,” Sorola says, “if you’d just study.”

Michael groans. “I _did_.”

“Study better, then. You day-to-day classwork is suffering, too. Try to be a little more present.”

Michael buries his face in his hands. _And sleep more_ , Gus might as well have said, echoing the small voice at the back of Michael’s skull. _And stop expending all your energy on stuff that's way, way cooler._

Michael packs up his things and swings the backpack up on one shoulder, the movement making it knock against the corner of the desk. He thinks about the laptop inside and feels another drop being added to the proverbial cup as he heads outside towards air that doesn’t smell like lined paper and spilled coffee and wasted chances.

Lindsay catches up to him in the door. At least _she’s_ happy, red and loud as she takes up half the hallway with her energy alone, walking briskly beside him.

Michael has already folded the test once across the middle, but now he hides it behind his body and makes it turn in on itself two, three times more. It ends up as a little square, warm to the touch, hidden in his fist.

“God, I’m so tired,” he says. 

Lindsay looks at him, obnoxiously awake in comparison. “You said so yesterday, too. _Something_ in your life has gone awry, hasn’t it?”

“…Maybe.”

“No maybe’s, Michael. You look like shit."

Michael smiles at the familiar, blunt honesty. "Maybe, I guess."

"Did you study?” She looks at him, judging. “No, you didn’t. Not with the way you were looking at your books.”

“Give me a break, Lindsay. I’ve got a lot on my mind, okay?” Michael shoulders his way past a guy running down the hallway.

Lindsay’s face softens. “Just tell me if there’s anything I can do to help, 'kay?“

Michael pauses as they pass outside onto the green. There are significantly fewer people than usual given how late in the day it is. Lindsay doesn’t notice what Michael sees down on the hill in the shade of the library. She has turned down the asphalted path that will lead them towards the rest of the city, towards noise and traffic, but if she turned her head right, maybe she’d see him.

Michael is willing to bet a lot of money that the crouching figure down in front of the library is Ryan Haywood. The height and the hair both match, though Michael can’t make out any of his facial features from a distance.

He stops, staring at the shape. Recognizing the spot.

Somewhere beneath Ryan’s feet lies an acorn.

Michael’s mouth goes dry, and his head whips left to right as he looks at Lindsay (she has paused too, confused) and Ryan (if it is him, if he is in this place on purpose).

“You go on,” he says, “I’ve seen someone I have to talk to.”

“One of your new friends?” Lindsay asks.

“…Yeah, sure.”

“Care to introduce us, maybe?”

 _Depends on whether or not he’s in full face paint_ , Michael thinks. All he says is, “Um.”

“It’s fine, it’s fine, you’re allowed your little secrets.” She winks. “For now. I'll be with Kerry and the rest if you need me.”

Michael waves half-heartedly at her before turning on his heel, heading down the hill. Suddenly there seem to be a lot more people, a lot more boots crushing the dead leaves. He keeps his eyes fixed on the back of a dark-grey Jacket, faded lines stretched across broad shoulders. Whatever maybe-Ryan is doing is difficult to tell.

A man ducks in front of Michael, eyes locked on something far away. Michael swallows down harsh words and continues on. He still sees the jacket. Just a glimpse. A group of girls come next – they chatter, carrying around big bags and fluttering coats in a swarm taller and bigger than Michael. For a moment, his view is blocked, and then he can say for sure that it _is_ Ryan. No make-up.

Something in his hand. No, something dripping from his hand, like a liquid, like wet soil spilling out between his fingers.

A group of barely-adults pass Michael by and he is lost between them, tossed about by their swinging arms and hips. One of them tell him to _get out of the fucking way,_ and when he washes up on the other side, Ryan is gone.

The spot between the young, leafless trees, the spot that can be seen from the library windows, is empty.

Michael comes closer but sees only footprints. He opens his mouth. He realizes now how he almost ran, and while he’s not in bad shape, some combination of that and the urgency he felt has made him short of breath. There's an aftertaste of metal in the air. Something ever so slightly off.

He considers for a moment where the acorn that Geoff once showed him ended up. Perhaps it found its way into the earth, either by chance or by some kind soul who buried it. Perhaps the rains have washed it away. _Doesn’t matter now_ , he reminds himself, and he leaves the place with a last look around. No Haywood.

A sense of unease follows him around the rest of the day. There’s not any feeling of danger or worry, per se. He’s not scared of Ryan - after chatting in this truck and seeing him wade into an ice-cold river for a friend, Michael doesn’t think he could ever be. Instead, the feeling is like having an unsolved puzzle, a riddle bothering him in the back of his mind. A shadow over Michael’s thoughts. To get some peace of mind, he decides to file it away as Ryan being weird. Maybe he’ll ask come Sunday.

* * *

The shadows are long in Michael’s kitchen, and it is quiet save for the sound of dripping water and a ticking clock. His home is made of concrete; it never creaks and you cannot hear the weather outside. He realizes too late that he stepped on a bill in the door, and he doesn't bother opening it, leaving it on a table to be dealt with later.

If he played his cards right, he wouldn’t have to deal with money, bills, payments… There are too many promises latent in his blood and body for that. All the limitations and possibilities, all in his head, create a jumbled mess. Maybe it would be easier to make sense of if he wrote it down, yet that would make it too final, somehow.

He thinks in circles when he is alone.

The first limit is the secrecy. He can’t reveal too much.

The second is the limit of his abilities. This weighs the heaviest on him. With each spell it gets a little easier, but the tiredness that arises from it accumulates.

Michael can envision the rest of his day. He’ll try to do some work – a dozen essays, worksheets, textbooks looming too close on the horizon – _try_ being the key word. Evil circles come easy to him, the fustration from not being able to focus making it even harder to do so and so on and so on, endlessly. He’ll lie on the couch for a while. Just lying there. He’ll make some kind of ramen, but in a saucepan instead of the Styrofoam cup because that makes him feel less like a lazy philistine. He’ll eat alone, maybe messaging someone to make the time go by.

He’ll go to sleep early just because his body is begging him to. That’s the cost of the evenings spent with water between his hands and droplets suspended in the air. The cost of the little spells he’s been trying to weave for luck. The cost of the light he keeps creating at night even though he knows he shouldn’t, just because he has to see his abilities, has to remind himself that it isn’t a dream and that he can do at least that one thing, at least _one thing_ …

 

Michael can never hear if it rains outside. No wind, either. But he can hear the traffic and the people in the apartments around his as he lies in his bed. He feels like even the pipes in the walls are making new noises, the water murmuring on its way to someone else’s shower. The sheets are coarse against his skin.

He tries to make his thoughts quiet down by focusing on his breathing, but there is a weight on his chest made of assignments, Sundays, that itching in his hands that makes him feel okay regardless.

A sudden impulse makes him retrieve the amulet he fixed once upon a time in the woods from the pocket of his jacket. He holds It in the palm of his hand, staring at the facets.

It’s amazing how knowing that you are beyond ordinary can make everything seem a little better.

 

And at some point, he falls asleep.

 

It happens slower than usually. He doesn’t go out like a light. Instead he lingers on the border where his body is incredibly heavy and his thoughts flow in all sorts of strange directions. He thinks in meter. He can’t move, but in his head there are words and words and words flowing around until everything slowly fades into something blessedly blank and still.

 

Michael is standing on the street outside Caleb’s house. It is very long and lined with trees that change shape, at once low and wide and tall and thin. The asphalt is cracking. Heavy heat is everywhere, shimmering, shifting. It presses against Michael like a living thing with hands and arms and appendages that can push his limbs around, making him a puppet for some kind of hellish spring. It closes its jaws around his head so that he can barely breathe for the hot air in his lungs.

He walks regardless. His feet seem to stick to the ground, but he cannot tell if something is holding him or if his soles have melted. Or if the asphalt has melted and he’s about to fall.

One step, then the next, then a stretch where time doesn’t exist.

Maybe he walks. Maybe not.

He has stopped when he sees a sigil carved into the black road. It belongs to no alphabet, cannot be vocalized. He cannot make out its meaning, only that he has seen it before. Somewhere on Geoff’s body. Maybe it is that association that makes the scene change. It is hardly noticeable, because he just keeps walking, but somehow he knows that Geoff’s house isn’t supposed to be this close to where Caleb lives.

On the other hand he has more or less forgotten who Caleb even is.

The door is open.

Deep shadows lie beyond the doorframe. They promise relief from the thing wrapped around his ankles, pressing into the hollow of his back. Michael takes the chance, striding across the lawn, peeking in.

There’s nothing.

He steps inside.

There’s nothing.

Maybe it’s the absence of others. Not even Gavin on the couch. No voices.

Is Geoff home?

Michael goes further in. He doesn’t call out. He knows he has to do this silently. He has to find the coolest place. Already, it is easier just because he is inside. The sun no longer pushes him forward, so now Michael can linger as a breeze comes through some unseen open window. Air ghosts past his bare arms making hairs stand on end.

A high, shrill noise – a cat? The sound does not repeat itself, and it does not seem to have come from anywhere close, so Michael ignores it.

The kitchen is absurd, and on some level he knows it. It’s a mix of Geoff’s and his own. There he grows afraid that the fire-alarm will go off, and he retreats back into the living room. Then deeper into the house. Cooler, cooler-

The bedroom. Michael knows the bedroom. He has been there before but now he does not step through the doorway because he _knows_ more than he senses that Geoff is inside.

The bed is empty save for the shadows cast by Geoff as he sits on it, unmoving, hands folded in his lap.

Michael walks to the bed. He remembers the texture of it and the way the mattress gives as he sits down next to Geoff. Only now does Geoff look up, his eyes meeting Michael’s. No words exist in Michael’s head, but none are needed - 

A hand comes to rest on Michael’s thigh, and Michael allows it. It is warm, but pleasantly so. He feels at peace as he sits there, neither hot nor cold, not really a part of what is happening as Geoff comes steadily closer. There’s a smell of herbs and spice and parchment, a whisper from the sheets on the bed moving against each other.

Michael feels Geoff’s other hand on his jaw now. There’s no pressure, just the texture of his skin.

Michael lets it all happen and it somehow feels _right_ even though they’re this close. Geoff’s breaths are deep and even and Michael can’t concentrate enough to feel his own. He only knows that his heartbeat is moving steadily faster, and that is all right too. After all, anything less would be strange when he grabs Geoff’s shoulders – feeling the yarn of the sweater, the angles and bones of his shoulders – and pulls him in for a kiss, caught by the kind of madness that only rears its head in dreams of exhaustion.

There’s no texture here, because he wouldn’t know what Geoff’s lips feel like, but there is smell and sound and warmth. Hands on his body. Moving, lower now, pushing him –

Michael’s back hits the bed and _something_ happens, hazy and hard to remember. Clothes shifting; the distinct sensation of a hand on his stomach and someone’s breath ghosting along his neck. Someone’s presence large and real and impossible to ignore along his side, someone’s body, words, strange and new flowing through Michael from unknown places below him -

 

A sunlit wall and two shadows upon it, Geoff’s moving above and around Michael’s, engulfing it, and Michael feels that he _is_ that shadow, not the body on the bed that casts it.

 

White, beige, black.

 

A view that fades into reality as Michael’s fingers clench around something that isn’t there and his mouth opens in a gasp.

He is lying in his own bed, in the light of the real sun, his duvet wrapped around his body, almost covering his face, reaching in between his legs. He hesitates to untangle himself, reluctant to move out of fear that it will make him forget his dream that much faster.

Then, a moment later, it all comes back to him and he wishes that forgetting it was still an option.

He can still remember the feeling of it as he closes his eyes tight enough that it almost hurts. The knitted sweater, the creases, the sensation of something against his body now missing. His stomach feels suddenly empty, like all of his organs have been removed and only cold air remains in the hollow they left behind. He draws his legs closer to his body in an attempt to trap heat.

Questions come unbidden, pressing against his skull.

_What just happened?_

A dream, he tells himself, exhaling and looking at his room, remembering where he is. Nothing but a dream.

_But what happened?_

He dreamt about Geoff’s house, then kissing him, then… Something else. Maybe more, maybe just nothing. His brain had been over-active, fantasizing. Nothing more.

_Why did it happen?_

Just the brain. Just synapses firing at random, resurrecting things he had seen throughout the day.

He moves a little more, rolling onto his back. He feels the remains of restless sleep in knots in his shoulders and legs that protest. He must have slept all curled in on himself and –

Oh.

His hand, previously running down his body just to feel that it was there, has stopped underneath the duvet, resting on his inner thigh where a more urgent problem waits. Michael swallows and feels how dry his lips are.

A weird dream about an acquaintance-slash-friend-slash-whatever-the-fuck – that, he could handle. Maybe he could joke about it. And even though it would take copious amounts of pretending it didn’t happen before he forgot it, eventually, he would. And everything would be fine.

A weird _sex dream_ , however, that had actually gotten him hard, that had him waking with his pulse like this, all riled up –

This, he can _not_ deal with.

The worst is the knowledge that he is still so close to the dream that he could just close his eyes and be right back where the scenario left off. He can still imagine Geoff’s scent – fuck, he is _not_ doing that, not this close to masturbating, not like this – and he can imagine the texture of Geoff’s hands – how they would feel on his thigh, fingers splayed… What had dream-Geoff been saying? Michael’s name, surely, like Michael has heard it before. And he remembers from the dream what it’d feel like to have Geoff whisper it in his ear and-

“What the _fuck_ is wrong with me?”

The empty room gives no answer, but the words shatter some kind of spell. Figuratively.

Michael throws aside the duvet, sitting up and shaking his head. Immediately it feels clearer, and as he rises to his feet he feels like one emerging from hazy drunkenness to sober clarity.

He didn’t jack off to Geoff, which is _good_ , but why on earth was he ever considering that possibility? Why on earth did he have to dream that dream, of all dreams, and why did it –

A cold shower, Michael decides, that’s what he needs. He sees the amulet on his bedside table and leaves it there.

The bathroom tiles against his bare feet further grounds him. He looks like… Like someone who has spent the night trashing around, hair a mess of tangles, lips crackling, dried spit on his cheek that he wipes away with the back of his hand. 

The cold water helps. Soon, he feels like everything is under control. At least all the physical – his hair is straightened out by a river of shampoo, his breath comes even and slow, every part of him calms down. He closes his eyes and leans against the shower wall. His mouth opens in a smile as he laughs at himself, at his pitiful situation, and he tastes the water and soap as it runs down his face. 

He does his best to get truly awake, stretching his body and drawing deep breaths. As he steps out of the shower and reaches for a towel, he rolls his shoulders and feels water run down his back. He steadily rubs away the last of the sleep from his limbs.

He has breakfast in front of the window where the sun glints in the metal of the cutlery. It looks like it will be a long day, but not because of any work or stress. Just a long, lazy Saturday stretched out in front of him. Maybe he’ll work on an assignment, maybe he’ll play Call of Duty instead, maybe… Maybe there's something else he can use it for to keep himself active. 

He pulls up his phone and texts Gavin when a sudden paranoia assaults him half-way through a piece of toast.

_Do prophetic dreams exist?_

And for once Gavin doesn’t respond. 

* * *

Meanwhile, **Gavin** is standing in a field approximately five miles out of town, seriously regretting the decisions that led him there. He can’t see anything for miles. Just a few dumb trees and a tractor left in the middle of it all.

The voices are quiet now.

* * *

**Michael** inspects his apartment in its entirety. The rooms, few as they are. All the discarded clothes, the coffee mugs. He clears that out along with the bowls and towels that are sort of everywhere after his private training sessions. (Again and again he had been standing in front of the sink, trying, hands warm from boiling water…)

When everything looks a bit cleaner, he places his hands on his hips and stands in the door. He wants space. He makes it, inch by inch, through the moving of the table, the chairs and a pile of books. A lamp finds itself demoted to a corner where it hangs it lampshade-head in the shadow.

Michael stares at the empty spot and is, for a moment, proud of himself for making it. Then he realizes that something is missing.

* * *

**Gavin** has found endless rows carved into the field, ready for planting, green weeds sprouting around the edges. That’s all there is – that and that awful, towering, abandoned tractor. Nothing that seems to be the cause for him to be here.  

All he had wanted was some chips, but there had been a strange pull, a sense of… something.

A sound almost like a voice, like many voices, with words he wanted to follow. Or maybe he didn’t want to, but-

* * *

**Michael** has done things that he knows made him look a little silly. He’s worn stupid clothes. He’s been too drunk. He has vomited too many times in front of people because of an inability to back down from a dare.

Now he is standing in line in a supermarket with a child’s bucket of colorful chalk and nothing else, side-eyeing the mother herding her children and their cart of items down the line to the cashier. An approximately four-year-old boy stares up at him with the widest possible eyes.

“That’s kid stuff. Aren’t you toooo old for that?” He drags out the o’s, a little spit shining on his chin.

Michael shrugs as nonchalantly as he can. “No,” he says. And then, seeing that the boy’s mother is pretty far ahead, he leans forward with his hands on his knees. “Do you want to know why?”

The boy’s head tilts to the side. “Why?”

“Because I’m a witch, and I’m going to use it to make magic spells.” Michael even waves his free hand around for effect.

“You can’t _do_ that with _chalk_ ,” the boy says. “You need a wand.”

Michael stands up straight. “No you don’t.”

The child leans back on his heels. He is loud when he answers, barking out a self-satisfied, “Yes you do!”

“I’m the witch, aren’t I? I would know, yeah?” Michael lowers his voice, hoping that the boy will follow suit.

He doesn’t. “No, I think you’re not a real witch at all!”

Finally his mother comes to collect him, pushing aside an older couple on the way. She yanks her son back by the sleeve of his parka, and Michael takes another step forward in the line. He swings the little plastic bucket back and forth, pretending not to notice the strange glance the people around give him. Fuck them – what right do they have to judge his decisions?

The cashier doesn’t react in any way. She scans the chalk and takes his money.

At the end of it all, Michael is in his car with the chalk sitting tight in the passenger seat. Moments after he has gotten keys out from his pocket, his phone rings.

Gavin’s voice is preceded by a lengthy pause. It is almost hard to hear above the sound of the cars pulling in and out of the parking lot. 

“…Can you come pick me up, Michael?”

 Michael leans back in his seat. “Where are you?”

Another pause. Michael can hear the wind. “That’s the thing. I don’t really know.”

“How can you not… know?”

“I just took a right somewhere on the road north out of town. And then I think a left? Just go that way and see if you find some kind of trail, maybe? Use a little bit of magic?”

“You’re telling me to just wing it?”

Gavin sounded like he was shrugging, possibly admiring a particularly pretty cloud. “Pretty much. Sorry.”

Michael put the keys in the ignition with his free hand and suppressed a sigh. “Were you or are you currently drunk or something? High?”

Gavin’s laughter comes in a sudden burst, followed by “Nah, nothing like that at all.”

“See you wherever you are, then,” Michael says. He ends the call and pulls out on the road and sees himself smile in the rear-view mirror.

 

Michael doesn’t usually take this road. There’s nothing to see but a grey mass of apartment blocks with a thousand tiny windows staring out. The buildings get smaller and smaller. The number of stories to Michael’s right and left is a countdown decreasing until he reaches a rail-road crossing. Beyond that there are no places to live, only storage, parking lots, the last discount store before the town fades. The asphalt is uneven, not allowing Michael’s attention to waver from the road. A pothole sends a jolt through his body when he hits it; the car groans in sympathy.

Eventually the grey and brown of the outskirts turn to softer shades as nature encroaches.

Fields stretch out on either side of the car, and Michael can see the tops of great pines out behind the fences and withered stalks to his right. The woods never quite disappear behind the horizon, always a looming presence. The north road keeps going for a while more before it diverges and splits into two directions. Three, if you count the trail that continues ahead, weaving through bramble and dead and dying grass.

With no indication of where Gavin might have gone, Michael stops the car by the side of the road. The rainfall weeks ago has not repeated itself, leaving the ditches brown and dry and deep. There is dust on the road, but the fields are not arid yet. When Michael steps out he feels a light breeze against his face, pebbles beneath his feet, but below all of the physical sensations is something else. He is reminded of standing in a crowd where the bass of the music is too loud. All around you is noise, but none of it is as insistent as that which is reverberating through your very bones. The deep hum of it affects his fingers, the small joints, and he makes fists of his hands. He almost feels like there is something beneath the hum, something like _intent_ , a voice…

Michael turns and turns but sees nothing but nature and the diverging roads. Lines of cables in the sky. Nothing that could explain this phenomenon.

It has direction. That much Michael can say for sure. It comes strongest from his right, down the little trail, and he steps gingerly toward it.

It starts to fade. Michael goes back, but it doesn’t change, and moments later he realizes that the feeling is completely independent of his actions. The ebb of it turns faster, the pressure on his body diminishing second by second. Like someone turning down the volume or carrying the speakers away.

Michael stands still unsure of _what just happened_.

He went to find Gavin, he got unsure of where to go, he suddenly felt like something very strong and very magical was very, very close. And then it went away again. It annoys him how hard it is for him to put the strange sensations to words. His new, sixth sense comes without vocabulary.

The absence of the hum feels like silence, but the sound of the wind and the small animals in the grass was probably always there. Michael decides he might as well go forward.

The trail makes it small bends and turns, but Michael never feels lost in the flat landscape. He can turn his head and see the car, even beyond the thin black thickets of trees. He wanders on, counting his steps and looking at his feet. At least there’s no mud to dirty his boots for the sake of this detour. For the sake of Gavin and his poor sense of direction and lack of self-awareness.

And, Michael thinks, when you speak of the devil -

They almost bump into one another in the middle of a twist in the path. At this point there is more thistle than gravel. Gavin shows surprise immediately followed by relief as he stretches his arms, palms skyward, before letting them fall.

“Michael. Knew you’d come.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Michael pats him briefly on the shoulder, moving to let Gavin walk past him if he so desires. “Just get going. I’m parked over by the start of this.” Michael kicks a pebble from the path to illustrate what he’s referring to.

“Can we stand here for a minute first?”

“Why’d you want to do that? But sure, I guess.” Michael puts his hands in his pockets and stares out over the field in front of him.

“I just…” Gavin bounces a bit on his heels as he looks in the same direction. “I just felt the weirdest thing.”

“I felt it too,” Michael says.

“Really? I’ve been thinking I was going mental the last couple weeks – Geoff and Ryan both insist they’ve heard nothing of it, but it’s like this deep _sound_ , right?”

“It was weird.”

“But you heard – it was like a voice, too, right?”

“Maybe. For a moment I thought it might just have been you, or something entirely different. It was…”

“Magic.”

“Mhm.” Michael looks out to the pale sky. “But I think it’s gone now? It felt like that, anyway, the way it ebbed out.”

“All I know is that this is the fourth time it’s happened, an’ I can never _chase_ it,” Gavin says, drawing up his shoulders. “I’m actually kind of insulted you’d think that was my Gift.”

“Cut me some slack,” Michael says. He feels like he is repeating himself, but then Gavin’s elbow hits him in the side, a gentle prod that makes him smile regardless. “Wanna get walking?” he asks, and Gavin nods.

“But just for the record,” Gavin says, “My Gift feels like _this_.”

Michael is prepared to strain his ability to feel something, for some kind of spell – but what he gets instead is a hand seizing his own.

They’re not really _holding hands_ , no fingers are entwined- it’s just Gavin grabbing, engulfing – but the contact is there. It is the contact that allows a spark to come from Gavin’s hand to his, a gentle prodding at his mind, and Michael answers, reciprocates, lacks the words to say what is happening.

Gavin’s Gift is like the taste of air by the ocean and the feeling of coarse rock against skin. The smell of a used lab coat with saltwater stains up the sleeves.  It is unique, like a face or a voice; a concentrated essence of a person.  The feeling fades as soon as Gavin lets go - maybe they were connected only a second, but Michael is left with sweat in his palms and heat from his wrist down; Gavin grins.

“That was weird,” Michael says.

“Your gift made me think of… bronze. Little shiny things you can break, but mostly they just grow very warm if you hold them in your hand. Smoke and little drops of molten metal,” Gavin says thoughtfully.

“Yeah. You’re like… A beach, maybe?” Michael shakes his head. Tastes salt in his mouth, smells brine despite there being no ocean for miles and miles. “Is it just me or did this conversation turn kind of gay?”

They walk on back to the car, and a calm silence settles between them. Michael watches the insects. When they reach it, Gavin takes the passenger seat and immediately turns on the radio.

Michael wonders if Gavin feels like _he_ did when it was Ryan picking him up. Did Gavin spend the walk wondering if Michael’s car would reveal something about him? Did he think about what kind of music Michael listened to, what he kept in the back seat, if he had any stupid bumper stickers?

He certainly does look around, not even hiding it like Michael did with Ryan. Or at least Michael hopes he wasn’t this obvious.

They catch the last seconds of a pop song on the radio before a voice comes on, halfway lost in static.

“ _And in five minutes we’ll be right back with the weather, so stay tuned through these commercials…”_

Gavin makes a small disgusted noise and leans back in his seat.

Michael concentrates on the road.

Between the gravel crunching under the wheels, the voices on the radio and his own relaxed and easy breathing there is no uncomfortable silence. Michael looks to his side to see that Gavin has pulled on leg up on the seat, thankfully sans dirty shoe.

Gavin looks back, smiling as if he can’t control himself. Then he looks away to the radio again.

“Useless thing,” he says, “Just adverts all day.”

“It’s fine if you want to turn it off,” Michael offers.

Gavin lets his head tip towards his shoulder, leaning against the window. “Nah. I want to have something on. It’s just a bit annoying.”

“I’m sure it won’t last long.”

“Yeah.” Gavin’s head bumps against the glass a little when Michael hits an uneven patch of road.

Michael admires how quickly Gavin fits in everywhere around him. He could imagine a longer drive - Gavin falling asleep next to him or blathering about whatever they might see on the way, useless hypotheticals keeping the both of them awake long past the time where the streetlights turn on. But for now, the drive is short; the grey houses are already appearing beyond the last scattered fingers of nature reaching for the town. Gavin’s eyes are almost glazed over. He seems to register the changing landscape and the way the road becomes asphalt, but nothing more than that.

“Hey, don’t fall asleep,” Michael says. “Where should I take you?”

“Just home?” Gavin says.

“I don’t know where you live, Gavin.”

“Oh, right.” He sits up straight and points right. “A right here.”

Michael turns. Amusement finds its way into his voice, light and softer than usual. “You’re going to be my GPS?”

“Sure.”

“You have a good accent for it.”

“Turn… right after the next 200 meters,” Gavin says, deliberately exaggerating both his accent and the pauses, mimicking a machine.

Michael clicks his tongue. “Exactly.”

Gavin takes him uptown and then out again, past rows of apartment buildings. Parks, silent and unused in the cold, grow more and more sparse. The walls are clean, then covered in graffiti and tags, then clean again. Gavin points. Right, left, straight ahead. The small town starts to feel larger for Michael as he discovers more and more little side streets he hasn’t been down before.

Finally they seem to have found Gavin’s neighborhood as he perks up a bit and starts looking more carefully around. There are a few shops selling mostly cigarettes and soft drinks, facades covered in neon lights that probably look more impressive in the dark. The apartment buildings might once have been carbon copies, but now they all have something a little different – a child’s chalk drawing on a wall, a tree or a hedge that has grown crooked out in front.

“ _Later this evening, the sun will continue to shine, but tonight there is a chance of rain… Tomorrow this chance increases, along with the possibility of strong wind…”_

The building that houses Gavin’s home is made of dark brick, two stories smaller than the ones surrounding it. Michael reaches down to put the car in a lower gear, but as soon as his hand finds the gearstick, he feels Gavin touching his arm. 

“I’m glad you came to pick me up.”

“Anytime,” Michael answers, shifting gear. He had hesitated, stopped, but now he continues the motion. He parks by the side of the street. A woman walks by, struggling to keep her dog on the sidewalk. Someone speeds past on a motorbike. Michael considers specifying that maybe it should not be _anytime_ \- who knows when Gavin could get in a situation that would require Michael to wake up and haul himself out to get him - but he doesn’t open his mouth. Maybe he wouldn’t mind that much.

“Aren’t you going to come with me up?” Gavin asks. He looks to the building. Only now does he withdraw the hand on Michael’s arm in order to unbuckle his seatbelt.

Michael lets go of the steering wheel, his hands falling to rest in his lap. “No thanks, Gav. Sorry.”

“Fine. I just thought now that you were here we might as well hang out” Gavin almost looks _hurt_ , and it takes all Michael’s strength of character to not retract his words as he stares at his face. 

“We should definitely hang out _sometime_ ,” Michael agrees, “Have some beers or something.”

“Sounds good.”

The car door opens with a soft _clack_ , and Gavin steps out. He keeps a hand on the roof of the car and closes the door slowly and carefully before leaving, lingering a bit on the sidewalk in order to wave at Michael.

* * *

And Michael returns to his DYI-project in the cleared corner of his apartment.

The carpet was never really fixed in place there. It had always been flossed around the edges.

Now he pulls the it aside, as far as it can go, to reveal the grey wood underneath. Michael wonders idly if his downstairs neighbour can hear the scraping when he drags the chalk across the floor.

He draws a circle big enough for a person to stand in - almost perfectly round, almost. On his knees in front of it, Michael follows the line with his fingers, slowly, so as to not smear the chalk. Light comes in from the window, an uneven rectangle of pale yellow appearing on the wall in front of him. He exhales slowly. For once this is all simple. This corner is quiet and clean, and when he rolls the carpet back, it is well hidden too, just in case.

He will draw runes around it to ward his little part of the world from outside evil. He will borrow one of Geoff’s tomes. He will get better at concentrating and he will stand there and make everything better.

Those kinds of thoughts make him light-headed and light-chested. Nothing inside him has much weight. Nothing feels very heavy in his hands, either,  cleans the last corners, cooks his dinner.

While he eats, he checks his phone and regrets not following Gavin up. He likes the company.

There is also the curiosity that he has such a hard time suppressing – the same curiosity that made him so interested in Geoff those weeks ago.

 _Is it already weeks_? Michael leans back and stares out the window just to have something to stare at. How much did he change in those weeks? In some areas, he supposes he is very different. He is more conscious of what he feels right down to his breathing, because that is what is required to cast a spell. He is less afraid of walking around in the dark or failing a test. On the other hand, there is an entirely different kind of fear.

His own hands, the weird phenomena – those can be feared. And then there’s Geoff, who Michael doesn’t want to think about after this morning. He grinds his teeth. He should be able to control what goes on inside his own damn head. Maybe that is the root of the problem.

Lack of control over everything he is.

Regardless, there are dishes to be washed and games to lose oneself in, allowing him to keep his mind occupied a little longer.

* * *

The night is dark and warm. It smells of down and tastes like the last hint of sour-cream chips that the toothpaste could not take away. The mountains of covers and pillows provide a warm, safe barrier where only thoughts can get to Michael. He listens to the building, creaking, whispering, while his cocoon rustles around him.

Eventually even this settles and stops.

All that is left is the sound of his blood, running and pushing through his network of veins.

It grows like approaching thunder. It grows like dreams.

And this night his dreams are different as something new replaces the usual memories and fantasies. Something shadowy, something that whispers, something that spoke to him.


	7. Etymology

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "A chronological account of the birth and development of a particular word or element of a word[...]"  
> Anyway, this chapter is a long one, and shit gets real now.  
> -

Tuesday, a name derived from _Tiwesdæg_ , from Old English and from long-forgotten realms on the other side of the Atlantic where people believed in Tiwaz, Teiws, Tyr. In this town and time the god himself is as forgotten as the laws he guarded and the tongue that once birthed his name - all the remains is a word. 

Michael has started to care a little more for words.

He thinks about laws as he drifts through the day, the sky leading his thoughts to steel hauberks and distant smoke with its color. He is not in the present until he steps outside late evening just to catch some fresh air and realizes that that was Tuesday _gone_ , never coming back, and it passed him by so easily. The cruel laws that rule time will only ever bend a little, never break, no matter what magic he or Gavin throw at them.

Michael exhales a little cloud of steam. The thought of Gavin reminds him that he should speak to someone, anyone, from their little coven. The etymology is really just a distraction from his nightmares.

He understands that word, too, now – how a dream can feel like a physical creature, a long-limbed black mare, ridning on your chest. The dark circles beneath his eyes feel and look like blue marks left by fingers, not lack of sleep. The _nightmare_  comes from a world without the electric lights that Michael keeps on in his apartment, but he says it to himself all the same when he wakes, covered in sweat, at three or four AM.

Sometimes, just to fall asleep again, he recalls the _other_ dream. The feeling of absolute safety in Geoff’s bed. His thoughts stray there without him having any ability to stop them. He can not make laws to rule his mind. Almost everything can make him think of Geoff, and no arguments work: he tells himself that there's an age difference that, not long ago, could make it literally unlawful for them to have a relationship - It doesn’t matter. He tells himself that they don’t even know each other that well, but some small part of him retorts that it doesn't matter, that he lives in a world of magic and unlimited possibilities.

Yeah, right.  

* * *

One thing, he does know: he’s not calling Geoff about his sleeping problems. He doesn’t want to see him with a head full of fantasies. Not Gavin, either. Just someone he can talk too without any drama.

* * *

And it takes him days to do it.

The dreams grow clearer. Darkness broken by glimmers of green light. Michael wakes with vague memories of visions of roots that dig their way deep, deep down and drink up water that was once rain. Some nights, he is the trees. Some nights he is nowhere at all. But he always feels small, insignificant compared to the forces flowing around him. He feels his Gift trashing in his body. It wants to run with the groundwater and dance along the branches, free of Michael’s horrible slow mass of flesh, but he never remembers what happens next.

Only that it hurts, and that it isn’t real. He forgets all the images a few moments after he wakes up.

* * *

Saturday Ray meets him in the middle of town.

The day is not as cold as it could have been. There is light and moments of promising spring warmth. The shopping street is not home to any big shops, nor are there any crowds. Just a few people and a reassuring background noise composed of voices and footsteps. A color palette of pale greys with the occasional flash of big-sale-everything-must-go-red.

Ray’s hoodie is purple, visible from half a street away, and if he pulled the hood a little further down and hunched over a bit more he’d make a passable thug. He doesn’t look very threatening now as he waves in greeting. 

“You keep texting,” he says, “So we might as well talk like, actually, in real life.”

Michael nods and strolls with him. “So yeah, about these dreams I’ve been having-“

“Straight to the point there.”

“Sorry.”

Ray smiles briefly. He hides his hands in his pockets and straightens his back a little. “It’s alright. We can do whatever magic Q&A you need as long as we talk about the rest after.”

“Okay.” Michael lets himself fall into step with Ray’s relaxed pace. “So. Here's the highlights: I’ve been having the same nightmare the last three nights, and it’s pretty fucking annoying. It doesn't feel natural.”

Ray’s brows furrow. “Why? What makes you think it’s not just regular dreams being dreams?”

Michael’s temper is a little harder to control when he’s suffering from a lack of sleep, but he forces it down as well as he can. “I'm pretty sure. It stated after... Nah, that probably doesn't matter.”

“What’s it like?”

Michael takes a deep breath. He can feel the sleep deprivation coming out. “They wake me up every time and they just make me feel so much _dread_ , like every night Satan comes with his cock - _cocktail_ of _fucking terrifying_ shit and pours it into my brain. Kind of like that.”

_Nice save, Michael._

“I can see how that would be a problem.” Ray looks straight ahead, weaving through a group passing by them. “I don’t know if it’s something to be worried about. I mean, look at me. I’m neither psychic or a shrink. I don’t know.”

They walk past a toy store, all blinking lights and bright colors. Michael finds himself happy that they’re having the conversation here in public and in fresh air. It makes everything feel less serious.

Ray continues talking, and Michael gets the feeling that he’s mostly thinking out loud.

“If it’s just about sleeping better, something could probably be done. Sleeping meds are a bit much trouble though, aren’t they? I could thumb through the books for some spells, but it’d better to get to the root of the problem.”

Michael nods, unsure if the gesture goes noticed. “How about we get some food if we’re going to be thinking and talking?”

“Sure. Now that you mention it, I’m actually starving.“ Ray draws his shoulders up, the hoodie apparently not warm enough at all. “Do you have any idea if there’s like… someone who would curse you? Or any spells you could’ve cast wrong?”

Michael shakes his head no.

It takes minutes to find a fast-food restaurant. _God bless America_. Ray sighs contently when they enter the air-conditioned building.

In a booth with two trays of food in front of them, the world is smaller and they are anonymous. The conversation swerves away from the previous subject as they are distracted. Ray stares intently at a pack of ketchup before he opens it and, against what little etiquette there is in this situation, starts painting with the contents. He does it with a disinterested look, leaning on one elbow.

“Um, Ray?”

The first packet empty, Ray starts on the next one, finishing the circle. He adds a little symbol that comes out more as a smear than a whatever-it-was-supposed-to-be.

“Seriously Ray, what’s the point?”

“Moment,” Ray says, though if he wants Michael to stop asking questions he would probably have done a little better if he hadn’t immediately poured all his fries out in the center of the circle.

He lets his hand hover above it, palm down, fingers spread. A moment later something sizzles on the tray, and Michael feels warmth on his arms.

“The fries were cold,” Ray explains.

Michael responds by stealing a few, admittedly nice and hot, french fries from Ray’s plate.

They sit for a while trading back and forth, and before Michael knows it he is talking. Or maybe the lack of sleep is. Regardless, he starts with his sleeping pattern, goes on to where and how he lives, and before he knows it he is explaining his life. He does it in rambling sentences, starting one place and ending up somewhere he had never planned on going. He talks about his studies, but by the time he is done with his burger he is complaining about his neighbor’s noise and the fact that he hasn’t found any time to get that one achievement yet. Ray comments and nods and sometimes stops the conversation entirely, pointing with a french fry at some person or other – “Why would you wear a t-shirt like that in public, I mean, I like that game too, but a naked chick on your chest? That’s _embarrassing…”_ or “Shout out to that hair, holy shit!” – making Michael laugh quietly with him each time.

Ray also talks about himself – his small house, small dreams for the future and extensive collection of trophies and achievements.

While Michael finishes his drink, thankful for the sugar content that just might make him feel like he isn’t sleepwalking once they leave, Ray looks down at his phone. Michael is about to jokingly admonish him when Ray slides it across the table.

“Page 23,” he says. “In the compendium I sent you.”

Michael glances at the page. He realizes that he is looking at a list of sleeping remedies. Short chants that, coupled with incense burning, is supposed to help – although to him it looks like the effect might be more psychological than magical in nature. A sigil to draw above the bed.

“Tea of Chamomile,” Michael reads aloud, “Powder of valerian…”

“I don’t know if you have any of it on hand.”

“I think you can buy the tea in the supermarket…”

Ray leans forward on his elbows. “If it was me I’d pick it with my own hands and hang some above my bed, too. Grind some up and make tea of the rest. It works better fresh. And,” he adds, smiling as if of himself, “It makes you feel like a real witch, picking your own herbs, not like… the discount half-assed version.”

“I bet.”

“Anyway, I’m pretty sure Jack has some of either in his garden. Geoff too, maybe.”

Ray pauses, looking thoughtful.

Michael pauses too, imagines Geoff’s house, can’t shake the feeling that going there would be awkward, somehow. Like Geoff would know what Michael thinks about him.

“I don’t know. Or try out local woods.”

“Thanks,” Michael says, “You’re… being a great help.”

“You’re welcome.” Ray starts packing up the remains of the meal.

 _Why can’t I decide if I want to see Geoff or not?_ Michael wants to ask, but he knows that he can’t explain the problem to Ray. He shakes his head. He watches as paper crinkles, fat glistens; everything is pushed onto the tray again.

Neither of them linger. They rise and pay and leave.

Outside, they find that it started drizzling while they ate. Michael finds himself damp within moments, and Ray has droplets condensing on his glasses. The street, as a result, grows much quieter and emptier.

 

The world turns grey.

 

They walk along the shopping street and finally turn away towards a park. Michael leads them in between the stooping, barren trees and the dark bushes, and the ground is black beneath them save for where the paths cut like bands of silver through dead leaves and withered grass. The homeless huddle underneath whatever cover they have, bundled up and wrapped around themselves like rocks unmoving by the metal benches. All of this is solid, but Ray and Michael glide between the stalks of the peonies with the raindrops as a sheen on their skin.

“Feels a bit like we’re ghosts,” Ray says.

Michael drags a hand along the damp bark of a tree. “I guess.”

They walk a little longer. The rain thankfully doesn’t increase. Michael has no real goal in the wandering except for it to take up time – and then, when they are almost out of the park, he realizes that that isn’t completely true. Maybe he was just waiting, because he finds himself breathing slower as the world grows cool and distant around him, and suddenly he’s speaking-

“I guess I’m feeling kind of weird about some things these days.”

Ray turns towards Michael with his hands buried deep in the pockets of his hoodie. “Like?”

“Like the whole coven.”

 _That’s not quite right_.

Ray stops. “What is-“

“Just keep walking,” Michael interrupts. “It’s not really such a big deal, just-“

Ray does as asked, but slowly, as if walking on ice. ”This casual bro-date is really taking a turn for the serious. Did we do anything?”

“No, _you_ , plural, didn’t do anything. Maybe it’s just…” He hasn’t thought about talking to anyone about these particular thoughts. Hasn’t prepared anything, didn’t believe he’d talk to Ray about this… “I think it’s just Geoff that I’m weird around.”

“He’s weird,” Ray replies, “Though really, others are weirder. What did he do to freak you out?”

_That’s the problem. He didn’t do anything._

_He just exists, and that is enough._

“Nothing,” Michael answers. “I just… have a good reason to think it’d be awkward to look him in the eye again.”

It borders on a lie, but it’s easier than blaming a dream and his dick. For now, Ray squints and looks away, maybe contemplating his response as he deals with the gate that leads out of the park. Once the handle and hinges groan and the metal swings and they step out onto the asphalt on the other side, Ray clicks his tongue.

“You know we all want you there,” he says. “On Sundays. Any other day. Avoiding things isn’t going to make it easier, I think. I’m not really one for good advice, but…”

“But?”

“Just confront him, dude. Get it over with. We could go right now. Use the momentum.”

“Maybe you’re right.” Maybe he _has_ postponed this. Geoff can’t read his mind. The only one with a problem is Michael, and-

“I have business at Geoff’s anyway,” Ray says. “Just come with.”

“I could do that.” Michael licks his lips. “Fuck it. Let’s do it. Just don’t expect any confrontation. Let’s just say we’re coming in to hang out on a rainy day, and I’ll look at Geoff and just handle that this is a man I’m going to be around.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Ray gives a halfhearted thumbs up.

Michael does the same.

* * *

By the time they get to Geoff’s house, the rain has increased in strength. The windshield wipers are as rhythmic as a heartbeat, suddenly silenced when Michael parks the car. The front garden looks like it could swallow someone up, never to be seen again beyond the border of the rhododendrons.

Ray knocks at the same time as he opens the unlocked front door.

The air inside is thick with incense and the pale blue smoke that Michael remembers from the first time he was there. It smells like lavender and something sweet he cannot place – some part of his brain whispers _rot_ , but that doesn’t make sense. Every so often a gust of wind goes through the house, taking scents along with it, giving a breath of fresh air to everyone inside. Even to Geoff who strides quickly from room to room looking breathless.

He’s quite a sight like this. He has a large coat on – years old, by the looks of it – and a stack of books that reaches to his chin in his arms, balancing precariously. Sage spills from his pockets; papes fly around his feet. He appears to be seconds away from leaving, but he stops in his tracks in front of his unexpected guests. He squints.

“Ray?” he asks, “Michael?”

“'Sup,” Ray says. If he has more to say, he does not go on when he sees the serious look on Geoff’s face.

“Now isn’t a good time.”

Michael takes a deep breath of the scented air, feeling it pool in his lungs. “Why not?”

Geoff says, “I’m heading out. Two hours, maybe a bit more, then I’ll be back… You can make yourself comfortable -” He looks at Ray – “If you don’t misbehave.”

“When have I ever done that?” Ray’s voice is full of pure indignation.

Geoff shoulders his way past the both of them, headed for the front door. “I don’t know - maybe I’m asking you to chaperone Michael, then. Make sure he doesn’t drink the booze or something. And Michael, you make sure Ray doesn’t try to enchant my WiFi again-“

“You have to admit it was funny when it malfunctioned-“ Ray begins, but Michael cuts him off.

“I want to come with.” He makes a point of standing tall as he says it, but Geoff just shakes his head.

He says, “No. Not this time, Michael.”

“Why not?”

“It’s complicated. I’ll see you soon again anyway, right?”

“Right.” Michael cannot do much to prevent Geoff from leaving when he is this quick, past him in a second. A cold draft sweeps from the open front door through the house. Ray steps forward to close the it, and the slam is louder than Michael had it expected it to be. He keeps standing in place while he listens to the engine noise outside getting harder and harder to hear.

“So…” he begins.

Ray flops down on the sofa, the movement making pillows fall off and upholstery groan. He snaps a DS open and looking expectantly at Michael – “You heard him. An hour or so. Chill out. Wait.”

Michael doesn’t know if he can do that. It was easier to make the decision to come here when it was a spur of the moment thing, but now he has a lot more time to evaluate things like why he is so weird and what exactly he is afraid of. Unless, of course, Ray distracts him, and he has always been pretty adept at that.

“Don’t know what to do, though,” Michael says. “...Kinda wierd to just be left alone."

"Not really." Ray shrugs. “He _is_  sort of weird like that. Just leaving his house with us assholes.” He underscores his statement by putting his feet up on the couch and leaning back, letting out a small yawn.

“I can respect trust.”

“It’s something along those lines.”

Michael takes a few steps forward, still unsure what to do with himself. “Gavin isn’t here,” he states. For some reason, he had almost expected that.

“We’d have noticed by now,” Ray adds, “No doubt about it.”

“No doubt,” Michael repeats. He turns his back on Ray, steps down the hallway. It remains strange to him how well he knows the house – and yet he still finds little things that are new. Earlier, he had not noticed the little alcove in the wall to his right, but now he finds it by virtue of the candle dripping wax down to the floor. 

Michael drags his fingers through the smoke.

He raises his voice so that Ray can still hear him in the other room. "I think I'm just gonna go through some of the books while we wait."

He hears Ray getting off the couch, footsteps behind him. Then Ray is two steps ahead and raising an eyebrow – “You have to be careful about that kind of thing.“

“I know, I know. I already know which ones to not touch.”

“Oh.” Ray smiles, easy-going again. “Then that’s all fine. That’s a way to kill thirty minutes until you’re too frustrated with the language to give up.”

“What should I expect?” Michael asks, headed for the study, knowing the way. “Latin?”

“Probably. I don’t think he has anything much worse.” Ray looks away, smiling, as if remembering a good memory. “You should see the shit Ryan’s got. I’m fairly sure he’s got some bound in human skin.“

Michael opens the door and faces the shadowy study. “And you?”

“I think I have like _one_ actual book.”

They each take a seat in front of the work table. The charms and projects that Geoff had been working on have all more or less been pushed aside or shoved into drawers. The table becomes a reading desk. Michael finds it easier to wait when he can busy his hands turning pages, following the lines of words. Ray sits beside him more interested in his game than in the knowledge before him, but then again, he has probably had plenty of chances to learn the contents of the books already. He certainly seems knowledgeable when Michael gives him his questions.

“So you can curse people?”

“Yeah, but we don’t do it. Much.”

“…”

“Okay, we don’t do it to anyone but each other. Just a little.”

“And you can bring objects to life, or what?”

“Yeah, but it’s not really living. It’s very simple. Ask Ryan about Yorick some day.”

And the room grows steadily darker. Michael misses the summer light more and more, looking out the window. Eventually his attention strays. He looks over Ray’s shoulder for a while, bouncing his leg. The sounds are button presses, Michael’s foot hitting the floor and brief, humorous comments as dusk descends on the world outside.

And then a pair of headlights cut through the dark.

Michael hears it before he sees it, but then he turns to the window immediately.

“Looks like he’s back,” he comments.

Ray stands up, pocketing the game. “I think I’m gonna get going.”

“What?!” Michael follows Ray who is already up and leaving. On one hand, the plain efficiency with which he does it is fascinating, but on the other, it makes his actions more confusing than they should be.

“I suddenly remembered that I should probably start to get home,” Ray elaborates, “And hey, you get to deal with your thing with Geoff without my watching eyes.”

“What great moral support you are.”

Ray looks down. “I know, I know. Good luck. And hey, text me when you’re done.”

“It’s not as dramatic as you think it is,” Michael says. He can feel his cheeks growing redder. Really, does Ray think that there’s going to be a fistfight?

Ray continues to avoid eye contact.

“You’re just afraid of this getting awkward,” Michael continues.

“We hung out for longer than I thought we would, and now seems like a good time to leave-“

Ray is cut off by the sound of the front door unlocking, followed by Geoff’s voice. He sounds exhausted and a bit hoarse, as if he just held some kind of great speech. “Are you still here?”

Michael and Ray look at each other, both waiting for the other to speak. Finally, Ray goes out to greet Geoff, exclaiming a clear “Yes.” All Michael has to do is follow him.

Then he stands in front of Geoff who is picking leaves out of his collar in the middle of the living room. Ray abandons them, heading out with the briefest of farewell-slash-apologies, prompting Geoff to turn his head and mutter, “What was that about?”

Michael shakes his head. “I guess I’ll be going with him.”

This only serves to increase Geoff’s confusion, judging by the way he squints. “Didn’t you want to see me?” He collapses down into an armchair, still looking up at Michael. “Did I just get exploited for my property? Did you plant some kind of prank while I was gone?”

Michael just shrugs. He didn’t mean to make it weird like this, nor does he want to be stuck in this conversation, but he feels he owes whatever little explanation he can give. “We just went through some books and wasted some time. There wasn’t much of a reason we came here in the first place, to be honest.” He swallows, knows he shouldn’t go on, but Geoff is looking at him with a certain light in his eyes that makes it seem like he is genuinely interested in what Michael is saying, making him want to talk more – “I guess we were talking about how I was afraid of us all being together would turn a little awkward, and we decided to-“

“Why would it be awkward?” Geoff asks.

Michael shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

“Heh.” Geoff smiles for a second before he looks down and the glow on his face fades away. Michael realizes that Geoff is looking at his own hands, laying in his lap, and when Michael follows his gaze he becomes too curious to leave.

“What were you doing?” he asks.

“Spellwork. Nothing dangerous, really, just something that I had to get over with.” Geoff rubs his left hand slowly, as if it hurts.

Michael sees two deep cuts there, an angry red against skin that looks almost ashen. The edges are almost black from dirt, but still blood flows down across the lines of Geoff's palm. Michael feels his own hands twitch out of desire to _do something_ , but Geoff remains still. He only regards the wound calmly even though Michael swears he can almost see scarlet muscle underneath. 

“I’ve changed my mind,” Michael declares. “I*m not leaving until you’re clear of an infection.”

For a moment, Geoff looks quizzically at him. Then the penny drops. “Oh. This?” He holds up his left hand.

“Yes,  _that._  Did you just... not notice?”

“It’s just a small-“

“A small cut, and it's covered in dirt and animal shit, probably. Do you have a first aid kit?”

Geoff sighs. “Yes.”

“Where?”

“Lower left drawer in the bathroom cabinet,” Geoff says, resigned.

Michael nods, satisfied. 

The bathroom is mostly clean, mostly white on the walls and mostly wood everywhere else. The drawers are a little stuck. Once he gets them open they are disorganized, but in that specific way that means they make total sense to one person alone. Michael is not that person, digging through empty packaging that once contained razors, spare toothbrushes and half-full bottles of shaving cream. (He tries not to think about what the things he finds tell him about Geoff as a person, how horribly private someone’s drawers can be. Now he knows which brand of shampoo Geoff uses.) Finally, he emerges triumphant with the first-aid kit. Loose gauze spills out when he opens it, but it turns out to be well stocked. He grazes Band-Aids and scissors and settles on a sterile bandage still in its little plastic packaging. He even finds a little bottle of antiseptic at the very back of the drawer.

His return makes Geoff turn his head, watching as Michael waves the bandage in the air.

“Thanks,” Geoff says, “Just hand ‘em over and I’ll…” His voice dies out as he remembers the obvious handicap.

“It’s gonna be hard for you with just one hand,” Michael points out.

In response Geoff holds out the injured hand where the gashes are still as red and _wrong_ as before. “You do it, then.”

Michael swallows and crouches down so that he is at the right level. It takes him too long to reach out and grab Geoff’s hand, but when he does, he feels silly for hesitating. He does not allow his heart to flutter away or his thoughts to stray to where he has imagines that hand being, because this close Geoff would definitely notice. It’s just skin, he thinks, running his thumb along the rough and soft patches, feeling scar-tissue under his fingers. Just a hand, weighty in Michael’s own.

Slowly, he wipes away dust and grime. The antiseptic seeps into skin and cloth alike, a drop running down the trail left by Geoff’s blood. Geoff fails to suppress a little groan of pain.

Next comes the actual act of bandaging. Geoff helpfully keeps holding out his hand while Michael opens the packaging, unrolls the gauze and sets to work, trying to remember the first aid class he took once upon a time in high school.

“I don’t suppose you remember more than me?” Michael asks.

 “No,” comes the answer, “Anything’s better than nothing though, right?”

Michael focuses on drawing the white cloth around the wounds. When he presses softly with his thumb, he hears Geoff whimper a little. No blood seeps through, so he supposes that is a good sign.

The bandage goes in between two long fingers, and Michael’s gaze stop by the tattoos. A moon, an arrow, a crown. Michael’s hands stop working, and he stares at the black lines.  

Then, suddenly, the little black ink-moon changes phases. In a second it shifts despite all logic saying it should stay fixed, but it goes from half to full and Michael jerks backwards out of surprise. A moment later a more rational part of his brain kicks in, but by then it is too late.

Geoff laughs softly above.

“Yeah,” he says, “They do that.”

Michael returns slowly to the task of finishing up the bandage, perhaps tying it a little too tight in order to cut of Geoff’s amused chuckles. “How did I _not_ notice this before?”

“It doesn’t happen often. I still sucked at magic when I enchanted them.” Geoff flexes his fingers a bit, straining against the bandage. “Way back when.”

“It’s not fastened yet. Keep still.”

“Sorry.”

Michael dares another glance up, accidentally makes eye contact and focuses on the knot he is trying to tie again. The damn ends of the gauze are too short… “Can you control it?” he asks.

“No,” Geoff answers. “Not at all. Emotions tend to get them going, but mostly it’s just random.”

“That’s not what I expected from you.”

Geoff moves his hand again, and Michael grabs at his wrist to keep him still.

“I didn’t expect _this_ from you, Michael,” he says. “Thank you.”

Michael looks at his handiwork, at the sad excuse for a bow topping it off. He finds it hard to let go. He is holding Geoff’s injured hand in both of his own, kneeling, now, on the floor in front of him where he can feel Geoff’s bones and skin and the weight of it, see the tattoos twitching. Maybe he had not noticed before because he wasn’t this close.

He decides that he likes close.

Looking up at Geoff, he sees the other man lick his lips. Geoff is not withdrawing his hand, either.

How long have they been sitting like this? Minutes or hours?

Geoff opens his mouth as if to speak, but he doesn’t. Maybe he can’t. Michael guesses they are seized by the same thing, because he can not move either, not even his lips. Geoff’s hand closes around Michael’s, soft and light, the grip loose because of the bandage. A tattooed flower loses each of it petals before they regrow. A crown gleams before rusting all over.

Michael wonders if he and Geoff have had the same kinds of dreams.

Both the nightmares and the _other_ kind.  

In a perfect world, Geoff spends more than one night thinking about Michael. About how Michael looked the first time they saw each other. About the taste in Geoff's mouth every time he saw his apprentice.

Michael looks from Geoff’s hand to his face and back again and doesn’t want to pull away and is too afraid to come closer, too, because both of them sitting here means there must be something more than whatever they were pretending they had.

Geoff’s other hand finds its way to Michael’s face. It rests, suddenly, by his jaw.

Michael leans into the touch. Why shouldn’t he? He is exhausted by now, having spent so long not sleeping, trying not to think of Geoff, and now he is everywhere. He is with the scent of alcohol and earth. He is the taste of something bitter, like licorice, in Michael’s mouth.

Then it all becomes more literal when Geoff leans in and kisses Michael.

Geoff’s lips are dry as they press against Michael’s. He parts them ever so slightly, letting Michael feel heat and something soft and wet behind them. There is this – the physical sensation, the hand holding his face and the feeling of having Geoff in his physical space – and something that makes every hair on his body stand on end. Waves of all that is Geoff around him, like when he felt Gavin’s gift only ten times more potent.

When they part, Michael takes in a rapid breath and gets to his feet at once. His heart is beating so very fast in his chest and he pretty much can’t feel his toes or fingers.

He did it.

Or rather, Geoff did it, but they’ve kissed. They’ve crossed a line – _the_ line.

All at once Michael is forced to admit to himself how much he has wanted this, because now there is no longer any way to ignore it.

Geoff stands up as well, bringing them almost to eye level, making the chair grate against the floor.

“That was...” Michael begins, but he doesn’t know where to go from there. At least it makes the other man look at him.

Michael dares to take a small step forward, bringing them closer again, and this time they take it slow when they kiss. Geoff’s hands come to rest on Michael’s hips, but the touches are ever-so light. Michael knows that he could get free any time he wanted, but all he wants – needs – is to press up further against Geoff’s body. He grabs at the dirty t-shirt, the fabric soft against his hands.

He breathes in-between the kisses in quick gasps.

He finds himself in control of what is happening and opens his mouth to let Geoff’s tongue in, to deepen the kiss, but then Geoff pulls away. It happens too soon, and Michael feels his hands tremble a little. The comforting warmth is suddenly gone; Geoff's eyes are wide with something like fear.

“I…” Geoff begins, but he swallows down the rest of the words. His bandaged hand now rests on the back of the armchair, so tense that it seems to be for support. The moon on his finger is waning.

Michael wants to say _what are you doing_ or _what did we do_ or _are we in love with each other?_

Instead what comes out is, “I guess things did turn a little awkward.”

And that is the understatement of the century.

“Maybe we shouldn’t be doing this,” Geoff says, his voice shaky in a way that would sound good to Michael’s adrenaline-high mind if he wasn’t in this situation. “We’re tired. It’s… We should think this through.”

“…Really?” Michael asks, afraid that he sounds too aggressive, as loud as he tends to be.  

“It’s not…” Geoff rubs his head as if he has a headache coming on. Quietly, he repeats himself. “It’s not… It’s not _like_ _that_ …”

“We kissed,” Michael says. “We – you and I – we both want _something_. Ray was right. We should face it.”

Geoff looks away.

Michael continues, “Even if it’s not today, we’re going to meet tomorrow, right?”

Geoff nods at the statement. “Sunday,” he states, sounding more than a little breathless. “It’s Sunday tomorrow.”

“Then... Okay. Let’s clear our minds. Lets talk about this.” Saying the words make Michael feel partly like he’s scheduling his death sentence and partly like salvation.

“You should go home now, though. I think you ought to – it’s getting colder and-“

“I’ll go.” Michael tries not to sound bitter. He can still _fucking_ taste Geoff’s lips. He can still smell his scent, knows the brand on the shampoo bottle, and he recognizes the notes of the spices on the label. He’s never going to be able to buy that brand, that’s for sure. And how dare Geoff push him away like this? He wets his lips. “This is…”

“It’s going to be…”

Neither of them can finish their sentences. _Fuck it_. Maybe he _is_ tired and seven kinds of fucked up because of it. He’s not going to get much sleep tonight if he goes home now, but tomorrow he’ll sort it all out. _They_ will sort it out.

* * *

The whole ride back Michael replays line after line in his head, wondering what went right and wrong. Wishing life had the option to reload a save and play through it all again.

* * *

In bed, Michael digs his fingers into the softness of his belly and pulls his legs up, making himself smaller in the dark as if that would give his mind the space it desperately needs. When he closes his eyes, he sees something that is part dream and part memory. Now his brain has the texture of Geoff’s lips stored securely somewhere in between all the other things Michael knows about him, and he can readily imagine what it would be like to be back there again, kissing him.

Or doing more than that.

Or less.

Because Michael has to face two equally terrifying facts: that he likes Geoff a lot more than he was previously willing to admit, and that he is not sure how Geoff feels in return.

He replays the moment in his head.

Tries to figure out if something went wrong.  Where it went wrong. Why Geoff asked him to leave even though _he_ was the one who initiated and got himself hurt in the first place and caused Michael to have all these _feelings_ and _problems_ … At this point Michael turns so that he lies on the other side as if the anger could be left on the other side of the pillow instead of rattling around in his skull. He doesn’t want to grow angry. It won’t help him. It has never helped him before in any relationship, and this – this he wants to succeed so desperately that it is three AM and he counts how many hours of sleep he’ll get before heading out to Geoff’s place.

He also tries to imagine how things are going to go down there.

Will Geoff pull him aside, leading him into a sun-lit kitchen where they’ll talk with the other four voices in the next room as background noise? Will he, at the end, press Michael up against a counter and try to make up for lost time while hoping the others won’t notice?  
Or will it be somewhere else, with the blue sky as backdrop, and will it end with a long list of excuses? They could spend the rest of the day trying not to meet each other’s eyes and everything would be awkward. Gavin would ask, without even a vague idea of the situation, what was going on and neither of them would be able to answer.

Every possibility spawns ten others.

Michael sleeps at some point during the night. He knows because suddenly he has been lying on his stomach and now numb hands for a while. He has kicked the covers off of the bed. His head is filled with brine and stones and songs that fade as all his emotions rush back in over him. He is cold and a little scared.

* * *

And yet for all his turning and thinking, he had never predicted that Geoff would just be plain _gone_ on the day of the sun.


	8. Running

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short one, this time.

At least Michael is not alone in Geoff’s front yard. Ryan, Geoff and Ray all stand on the front steps with varying degrees of annoyance and confusion painted on their faces. 

“What is going on?”

Ray answers, eyes on the garden around them. “Looks like Geoff isn’t home.”

Michael feels his throat constrict. Before he can think the thought through himself, Ray asks the question:

“Did something go down yesterday?”

Michael sees no accusation, only curiosity in Ray’s eyes. “I guess,” he says, but he is unsure how much further to go. A strange idea seizes him when he sees Ray motioning for him to continue - “Were you… Yesterday, when you left suddenly, were you trying to set us up?”

Ray scratches at the back of his neck. “ _Someone_ had to. I mean, you should’ve heard yourself the whole afternoon. Thought I might help things along.” He turns to the locked door. “…But I take it it didn’t go well.”

“It was… It wasn’t that bad,” Michael starts. “He didn’t get angry. He just seemed kind of… ambivalent. I didn’t think he’d just-“

“I didn’t take him for the type, either,” Ray says. Then he lowers his voice. “Just to be clear– what _exactly_ was it you talked about yester-“

He is cut of when Ryan approaches them, phone in hand, declaring, “Good news. Geoff left a note saying Gavin has the spare key.”

“That helps a lot when _Gavin’s_ not here _either_ ,” Michael hears himself say.  “Thanks, Ryan.”

“…You’re welcome.” Ryan looks from Ray to Michael, sensing the remains of their conversation still hanging in the air. “So, um, do any of you know _why_ we’re all standing out here…? You look like you suspect he’s not just out shopping or something.”

Before Ray can open his mouth, Michael cuts in. “It’s complicated. And kind of my fault. I’ll handle it, though.” He can feel his own pulse increasing. _Why would Geoff just up and leave like this?_

“It’s fine,” Ryan assures, “I won’t pry.” He looks at Ray in a way that is far too conspiratorial and makes Michael think that Ryan is going to figure things out either way. He just hopes he hasn’t been too obvious about the crush that he, in hindsight, knows that he had. Has. Whatever.

“Usually he writes when he knows he’ll be late,” Jack comments from where he leans against the door.

And Michael looks at the building and realizes how little he cares about this house now that the most important part of it is missing. He grabs for his phone in the pocket of his jacket, cold hands drawing the lock pattern clumsily.

There’s a message.

He can read the first words already, and the sight makes him tighten his grip.

_Sorry, Michael. We can still…_

Deep breaths. Michael takes a step away from the others, hurries around the corner and presses himself up against the wall. _God, it’s all fucked up now._ Just the thought of a threatening _we can still be friends_  makes Michael step away from the dry leaves in fear of them bursting into flames. He’s afraid of opening the message, seeing the typed-out finality of it, and yet somehow he manages to do it.

He figures it has something to do with anger.

_Sorry, Michael. We can still talk and I’m not taking anything back. It’s not your fault I just had to go._

It’s too vague, doing little to assuage the feeling in Michael’s gut, but he forces himself to draw a deep breath.

Geoff might have run off to take care of something – and Michael finds it easy to believe that someone like him has a network of sorts, connections, places to be and people to talk to – but he’ll be back. And then Michael can tell him what an asshole he is for leaving at a time like this and making him worry so damn much. And letting them all get cold waiting for Gavin.

He returns to Ray’s side, mumbling as he tells him, "I got a text from Geoff."

"Oh?"

“Something urgent seems to have come up for him.”

“Hm.” Ray hides his hands in his pockets.

They stand for a while under a sky that seems very close. White clouds and mist come down to surround them, choke them out - or at least that is how Michael feels when he breathes, cotton and spiderwebs filling up his lungs instead of air. His breaths are quick.

Gavin comes on foot, a gangly figure down the road, a solid black against the grey, frost-covered hedges. The key he carries is small and shines like silver.

The house opens up and welcomes them in.  

The whole place is dark, curtains drawn, and instead of turning on the electric lights Ryan opts for the candlesticks. They crowd together, and even though something is missing, they manage to talk around the empty seat. Soon most of them seem to have all but forgotten the situation. Not Michael, though - he listens in, but does not speak when the others throw themselves headfirst into their discussions.

“I’m going to head out of state for a speed-running event, anybody wants to come?”

“Oh, I have a friend over there who can sell you dog bones if you need them-“

“Why on earth would you-“

“Sometimes…”

Michael doesn’t forget. And he doesn’t remember much at all when he listens to the conversation, not even when he bids in. He keeps thinking he should be somewere else, but the urge only really rears its head when he goes to the bathroom and dries his palms on a discarded towel. There, the half-open drawers. Yesterday is still hanging around in the open first-aid kit left out on the counter, the smell of disinfectant in the air, and the memory stings like a physical ache.

He takes the opportunity to stalk down the hallway and peek into the bedroom. The scene of another memory, though easier to stand in. Signs of haste lies on the floor – strewn about clothes, a book lying open, the potpourri on the bedside table knocked over.

In the work room, Michael notices missing amulets. He runs his hand over the backs of the shelved books, feeling his skin tingle at the contact. In the windowsill sits a solitary ceramic bowl.

In the living room candlelight drips like honey from working hands. Ray and Ryan have claimed the table. Sitting on either side of it, they compare notes and transcribe words in Latin onto a large piece of paper between them; Ryan adds a sigil. Michael takes a seat at the table’s end and tries to decipher the pattern before he asks. A mess of triangles and lines and _ambulabunt invisibiliter…_

“So we’re using the white candle for purity or whatever, and then the myrrh and dillweed,” Ray muses, leaning in on his elbows. “And the almond stuff I pilfered from the kitchen.”

“I really think it’s going to need some amaranth if it’s going to work,” Ryan says, mumbling into his hand – he is once again in full makeup. Michael wonders if he has enchanted it to avoid smearing.

Ray scratches another letter down. “The whole point was taking this spell and _improving it_ so it'd be quicker,” he says. “I can do it better than someone on the internet calling herself Lady Darkraven Bluesky.”

Ryan smiles at that. He retrieves a mortar from somewhere in the soft shadows and starts grinding up the plants. Michael forgoes asking about the purpose of this entirely. All he really wants to do is sit there for as long as the low noises of the grinder fill the room. He needs distraction from his helplessness; he wants to go, but he does not know where he should be heading. He can’t really concentrate on anything else. The image of the ceramic bowl comes back; it was blue in the sunlight, dry trails down its side where droplets of water had once been running. 

The remains of the herbs are sprinkled on the paper and laid into Ray’s cupped hand. He closes his fist around them, and Michael can smell their scent.

Ray’s hands come to rest on the middle of the paper on the middle of the table, the leaves and stems and petals in a thousand pieces between his fingers. Ryan lays his hands above, and they both close their eyes.

Suddenly, they are not in the same room as Michael. _Their_ world has become a flow of feelings and powers, and the contact point of their hands is its center. They look at each other briefly – just long enough to decide wordlessly when to start speaking. Ryan starts a few instants before Ray, and he stumbles along a few words, leaving them unsynchronized. Michael finds it hard to hear the magical in that, but they both carry on until they find a rhythm.

Outside the hummed words, the sharp vowels and the shared powers running so freely between their hands and minds, Michael feels alone. There’s an ache in him, growing steadily stronger as Geoff gets further away. The bile of guilt and worry is all he can taste.

He sits back and wants to be as disappear just like Ray does it, growing more and more transparent until he’s invisible.

* * *

**Gavin** isn’t really paying attention to Jack, even though he is pretending to look at how he tends to the potted plants just outside the window.

Michael looks uncomfortable on the other side of the room. The candles color his skin gold. He looks like a statue Gavin once saw on a brochure, something roman – a downcast Antinous, although Gavin would never admit to entertaining the thought. Smoke twists through the air around him, Ray and Ryan let their powers entwine with pendulum-like pulsing, Gavin is rocking back and forth and bouncing his leg. Air moves from a hundred little drafts, shadows flicker different from moment to moment. In the midst of all that movement: Michael. He is still, quiet. Something bigger than him is weighing his mind and body down so that it is anchored to the floor. A stronger kind of gravity rests on the slopes of his shoulders and his half-way bowed head.

Gavin believes in all the swift and drifting things. All the transient movements. Moods pass, dispositions can be changed. He rises as if picked up by a wild air current, strides to Michael and claims his attention.

“I have an idea,” he says. 

Michael looks up at him. Shadows, deep and black, below his eyes.

Gavin believes in the electric lights he turns on in the guest room.

Michael looks at the bed that Gavin almost considers his own. Gavin’s spare phone charger lies in a drawer in the bedside table; he suspects that there are still splinters of the glass he accidentally broke three weeks ago lying on the floor. It is a very empty room. Michael stands out against the pale white wallpaper.

“You look worried,” Gavin says again.

“Really?” Michael asks, but his tone of voice suggests that he knew.

“I can tell.”

But Gavin also believes that he is capable of helping.

For dramatic effect, he opts to leave instead of explain – and when Michael sees him come back with the ceramic bowl in his hands, he gets it. The bowl passes from hands to hands, smooth against skin. The water that Gavin poured into it has a faint smell of chlorine.

“Can you make do without… guiding and herbs?” Gavin asks.

Michael looks helplessly at the bowl. Gavin hasn’t seen that in him before, the indecisiveness. Not really. Because if anything, Michael has always felt powerful to him – always burning something- and always making his choices as they come. “I don’t think that’s the issue,” Michael says, “Even with them – with Geoff – I couldn’t.”

“You can’t scry?”

“It didn’t go well last time.”

“Oh.” Gavin looks away from Michael’s disappointed expression. Who or what he is disappointed in is hard to say, but Gavin still doesn’t want to deal with it. “I just thought it’d be an easy way to try to see where Geoff was at. I could…”

“Try?” Michael asks. “Maybe I…” He weighs the bowl in his hands, making the water move and splash against the sides. “Maybe I should try again.”

“Why?"

“I think I’m the one with the best chances,” Michael says after a moment’s deliberation. “And I’ve got you here.” Something more, something unsaid. Gavin can feel it, but he doesn’t prod. What Michael would need him for, he cannot say.

But after fetching bowl and water and saying what Michael apparently needed to hear, Gavin can do little but watch.

Michael casts a circle, staring at the floor as Gavin knows that he visualizes a barrier between him and the world. He looks very distant, and then again – his eyes dart to Gavin as he lifts the bowl to chest-level, looks down into the waters. In this room the candles mix with the natural light coming in through the open blinds.

Gavin takes a deep breath.

It reminds him of smoke, coal, fire – Michael working, Michael breathing so deeply as he focuses.

Something makes Gavin a little worried. Something bleeding in from Michael, he supposes. He considers whether or not to reach in through the barrier: he has to admit that he is a little afraid of what Michael could do if he was suddenly disturbed. Then he decides against worry.

Gavin lays a hand on Michael’s shoulder.

Gently, he attempts to tell him that there is more power for him to draw on should he need it.

* * *

**Michael** is moving hundreds of miles per hour, heart beating, beating, beating.

He feels like he is flying. Soaring. Miles of road underneath him with the heat-shimmer like a mist he is constantly trying to catch up to. The broken dot-and-dash lines, white against black, disappear beneath him.

He feels wind against his face. A sound of something rustling, something breaking – pines tall as cranes and steel-beams staring down the construction of highways. Are they on fire? Is the air in his lungs turning to smoke? As something like panic sets in, Michael starts to catch embers out of the corner of his eyes-

Then, suddenly there is something very real on his shoulder keeping him anchored. (Salt, water, ivory shells). It is soft and he doesn’t remember who it could belong to, only that it reminds him of his purpose. (Brisk wind, fresh oxygen).

His purpose eludes him. North, past the shimmer.

He’s bring guided by an emotion, and that is what makes it easier.

Somewhere along this road, he should find Geoff.

In glimpses, Michael sees signs. Road names. Miles. Numbers.

Geoff whom he kissed, whose lips are dry, who tastes like alcohol. Rough, gentle hands.

Geoff isn’t here because of something they did, Michael said, Geoff –

Not gone, not for long, because Michael has to find him and make it all right.

A shape blurry against the sky and the wormwood-green of the forest behind him. Dots and dashes of grey in the background tells Michael that it isn’t far off the road.

(The sight of grey clouds rolling in towards a coast Michael has never seen before, the atlantic ocean as seen through the window on a plane).

A house. Moss on boards and a rocking chair moving as if claimed by an invisible creature. It watches the waiting forest around it.

An absinthe-scene, Geoff’s hands clasped, amulets spread all over the backseat of his car. A sun setting, trees whispering.

Geoff listens like Michael listens to himself now.

Answers. In between all the clouds and shadows.

The road names and numbers add up, quickly, to an understanding. Michael raises his head and breaks free of his trance.

It is like coming above water again and finally finally breathing, oxygen, air.

(It tastes like the sea – it was never clouds in his lungs, only sea-foam.)

Returning to his body, Michael blinks in the suddenly sharp light. Gavin raises an eyebrow.

“How’d it go? See anything?”

Michael cannot muster an answer. He sits, cradling the bowl. It feels right.

He is still overcome by the thoughts of Geoff – his hands and face and demeanor, the things he hasn’t done but Michael wants to do, the things he has done that Michael remembers. “I know where to go,” he declares. “I know I have to go now.”

Gavin nods, smiling. “Go, then.” He looks down at his hand, flexing his fingers.

Michael is thinking quickly – jacket, goodbyes, car. He is behind the wheel within minutes, turning on the radio to drown out his own questions of why he’s thinking it is such a pressing matter. The only justification he has is _the vision told me to_ , but it’ll have to do. He feels bad for Gavin, leaving him so quickly. He promises himself that he'll apologize, and then he thinks only of keeping the vision clear in his mind.

* * *

He recognizes the roads.

Maybe all roads are similar at their core. It could be a good explanation, Michael thinks, for the peace one can find while driving. The white-on-black patterns are always the same as long as the destination is far away. The roads all bid him welcome back because every road is every other road. He knows them all by virtue of having driven on a few. On only one, maybe.

Taking a deep breath, Michael steps on the clutch and shifts the gear.

He cares not for the world that passes by, which is not a new feeling - but it is new to have a reason. 

* * *

He recognizes the specific signs, now, and the way the road curves. His vision comes true before his tired eyes, and he drinks a can of energy drink purchased from a gas station. There is a certain peace to be found in knowing that he is at least moving forward, going _somewhere_ , getting closer.

What he’ll do when he gets there is thankfully not a subject his mind gets around to obsessing over. There’s plenty to think about just keeping track of where he is and where he’s going.

All he has is the first few words. Whatever he is going to say, it is going to start with, “So, I think we might be in love…”


	9. Deers and Headlights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This + the next chapter are short ones, and then things get longer again.  
> Hope you like dialogue.

Is it here?

Is it this place by the roadside, this sudden dirt trail swerving off the asphalt road?

The pines are tall and dark beyond the car windows.  As soon as Michael steps out he feels cold wind, strong like a shove to his back forcing him onwards and inwards. Rocks and gravel crunch beneath his shoes.

Ahead of him, a shape emerges from the darkness: the boxy outline of a car. He cannot see beyond the windows, but he knows it all the same. It’s Geoff’s, but here it looks abandoned. Quiet. No driver in the front seat and no one sleeping in the back as Michael could have expected, remembering the blankets he found there when he was behind the wheel.

He reaches out to touch the metal. Cold.

_What now?_

Michael closes his eyes and decides to follow the impulse that has taken him this far. His sixth sense. _Whatever_. The sun is about to set, and the promise of darkness makes all his senses sharper as something almost primal rears its head at the sight of the tree-tops waving back and forth against the twilight sky. Something could lurk just beyond the light of the headlights, in the shadows of the bramble, even though he can still hear traffic. He does not know how far he is from home exactly, though it is a matter of many miles, and certainly enough to make everything feel foreign.

He hears a noise. Further away, something rustling.

He catches a glimpse of a flashing yellow light between shifting leaves and heads towards it, though he hesitates in letting go of the metal in his hand.The car’s headlights illuminate only his back, now, not the path that he carves through the grass in front of him. Gravel gives way to soft pine needles that swallow sound. He steps over a fallen tree with a trunk as wide as his shoulders and ducks under another, slimmer growth. He feels like he is stepping on every single branch there is, but they snap quietly, all soft and rotten.

At one point, he is sure that he sees a hare or a similar, quick creature startle and jump. Wide, scared yellow eyes, a flutter of limbs before it is gone again.

Then – the yellow light, perhaps half a mile away. As Michael comes closer, he realizes that he can no longer hear anything but the faint sounds of the animal life around him and the wind rustling the leaves. Even though he hasn't walked for more than ten minutes, it feels as if he’s somehow made it ten miles in that time. More, maybe. The road is a distant memory already.

He notices the marks on the trees, and wonders if this is another one of those places meant only for those with the Gift. Perhaps someone else would not have been able to go this far, would have been turned around and stumbled away.

They would not, as Michael does, see a house between the trees.

Maybe _cottage_ is a better word. It does not seem meant for permanent living. It might have been a hunting cabin once upon a time, but now leaves and growths have covered up the planks and boards. Ivy has claimed the stones and posts, and the windows are like dark bottle glass. A path starts by the door, but it soon tapers into nothing. In the center of the door is a rune, _algiz_ , and Michael stops to touch it before he opens the door, as if it will give him luck.

A crow calls somewhere far out in the treetops.

There was a time in his life when Michael would have hesitated considerably more before barging into a possibly abandoned cabin in the middle of eerie woods. On the other hand, at that time he had not been aware that his capability for self defense included being able to conjure up fireballs.

He takes hold of the handle and shakes the door. There’s a sound of metal against metal, an old-fashioned hook keeping him out. Finally, someone one the other side comes to help him, and Michael takes a step back as the door opens.

He does not know this man, but he can easily imagine that Geoff might. Same kind of sleepy look. Same kind of feel of magic around him. The man rubs his eyes and looks down at Michael – he’s tall, dark-haired, a perfect picture of a shady stranger. Magic lies like a shimmery layer of oil on his skin. Michael doesn’t know why he thinks this, but he knows it to be true. _He looks ageless_ , his sixth sense offers, _not old, not young. Glamour spells on top of glamour spells._

Michael realizes that the man is waiting for him to speak up, so he does; “We don’t know each other. I’m looking for a Geoff Ramsey.”

The stranger squints. “You wouldn’t happen to be Jones, would you?”

“I usually go by Michael, but yeah. Why?”

“I heard him swear a name along those lines.” The man steps aside, allowing Michael in. “He just showed up out of the blue looking like he fucked up, so, um… You can go ahead and sort that out. I’m Joel Heyman, by the way.”

The inside of the cabin is the reverse of what Michael expected: it feels _smaller_ on the inside. Maybe it is because there are so many crates and shelves stacked up along the walls. What little light there is falls mostly on wall to Michael’s right. It is covered in paper - a map of New England. It looks like something out of a detective movie, complete with scrawled words and lines of twine connecting the pins placed without any recognizable pattern.

Some bird screeches again. Closer, now, perhaps on the roof.

Michael diverts his eyes.

The center of the only room is dominated by a table. Drawings – rough charcoal sketches – are laid out, depicting circles and patterns. Sometimes a study of a bird, roughly drawn. Geoff’s amulets join other magical devices and charms. In a corner, there is a mattress and a woolen blanket grey as granite. Opposite Michael is another door leading to a back entrance.

“Do you live here?” Michael asks.

“No,” Joel says. “It’s just storage.”

Michael inhales dust, but the place does not look at all abandoned. The books in the crates and the mysterious maps might summon the dust themselves, just because they can’t exist without mystery and age

“I got the place for… I think it was fifty bucks around eight years ago,” Joel continues.

“Does Geoff come here often?”

“He drops in. Sometimes we meet. Sometimes we just leave notes or…” Joel looks to the map. He takes a pin from the cork board beside it and presses it into a point a little west of Boston. “Or signs. There are a couple others, too.”

He leaves the board and goes on, opens the back door. Cold air rushes in.

“He’s outside.”

The door creaks on its hinges. Brown and grey, it looks older than everything else in the house combined. 

Behind it is four stone steps down to a forest floor that would be every shade of emerald if it wasn’t turning dark. Now everything looks colorless, black in black, and Michael treads carefully into it. He can feel the immense difference in temperature within seconds – he hadn’t felt like the cabin was that warm, but it was hot compared to this.

“I’ll be back in ten,” Michael says, “Just gotta beat a message into him.”

Joel stands in the open door. He watches with crossed arms and an expression like he’s just waiting to see how it plays out. He’ll accept any outcome, and Michael cannot understand what that must be like.

Michael knows what _he_ wants when he turns his back to the cabin – such a strange gateway to pass through– and walks.

The trees here are spaced a little wider apart. To compensate, they are bigger and broader. The coming of the night draws the birds together in their branches where they crow to one another, louder and louder. An owl silences them for a moment, a hoot echoing before they begin again. Michael steps around a puddle, sinking into the soft mud. A fallen tree blocks his way. He bends under it, feels moss under his hands, festering bark long cracked open by beetles.

He walks fifteen steps. Twenty. Stones mark the path, water and wood strive to erase it.

Michael steps over another tree, only this time there is a flash of light almost blinding him. He has stumbled upon a small stone bench, a little clearing, and Geoff.

The birds go silent, as if they have all gone to sleep now. As if they have all died. Only the owl hoots twice more - then, with a rustle that is almost too low to be heard, it departs.

Michael looks down to see Geoff sitting cross-legged on a stone bench, even though it is covered in dead leaves and pine needles. His hand is on an extinguished flashlight. His eyes meet Michael’s. He does not look angry, and Michael has had plenty of time to imagine how that would look on him. There’s only a touch of fear on his face that fades away as he tenses in his jaw, bites down on it and dares to smile a little.

The flash of light came from Geoff’s palm. Something like a firefly, a bauble of shivering photons, rests between his fingers.

His voice is almost hoarse when he speaks. “Hi Michael. Knew you’d come.”

Michael steps forward.

Geoff takes a deep breath. “God, what a mess.”

Michael stares into Geoff’s eyes. Blinks. Confusion and the heat of rage are both coiled up in his chest, because _why would Geoff leave, didn’t he know how Michael would feel? What went wrong? Why wouldn’t he give a better explanation?_ But this is not what he says. Instead, he steps forward and looks down on Geoff’s face. It seems foreign in this weak light. The slowly rising moon is reflected in the dark seas of his eyes when he looks up.

“A fucking mess indeed,” Michael spits. “What the hell are you doing out here?”

“By out here, do you mean-“

“I mean not at your house, not even in the right _town_. Just _gone_.”

“I was going to go back. I was going to go back soon, I just had to…” He runs his fingers through his hair before his hand falls limply down again. “Needed to clear my mind.” The intensity in his voice begs for a break.

Michael gives it, standing wordlessly down.

“Because lately, all that’s been on my mind has been you.”

Michael wants to smile, he wants to snarl, he _doesn’t know_ what to do - so he does nothing. “Glad that’s cleared up,” he says bitterly, “Because your disappearing act made it damn hard to guess what you were thinking.” He takes a deep breath. “We fucking kissed. _You_ kissed _me_.” Despite the fact that he’s trying to have a confrontation, he still can’t help but feel something flutter in his stomach at the thought. It scares him a little. Geoff, he realizes, probably feels the same.

“I know.”

And Michael finds the next words burning on his tongue – “Take some fucking responsibility.”

Geoff raises his voice, or maybe it is just normal speaking level – it is hard to tell here where everything else seems so quiet. “I think we can share the blame. At least a little.“

“…Just explain, Geoff.” Michael steps closer to the bench. Stops by the side of it. “Do we want the same thing, here?”

Michael tries to make his voice sound earnest and urgent. He wants it to communicate the things he can’t quite put into words. He wants the Geoff he had in his head to survive this untouched, and he wants to go right back to yesterday afternoon where everything was like a dream.

And yet all he can see is the mare on Geoff’s back.

_Good. At least the man feels bad about it._

“I like you, Michael,” Geoff says. He cups his hands in front of him and stares into the little ball of light. Can’t look Michael in the eye. “And I shouldn’t have started this the way I did, but I…”

The memory softens Michael up a little. He sits down on the bench, still a few centimeters between them. It’s a bit wet. “Well,” he says, “I couldn’t resist either, really.”

“I'm just glad to hear you say it's mutual.”

“Fuck yes, it is. Very.” Michael shakes his head, and a little hardness creeps back into his voice. “But if we both like each other, Geoff, and we both _want_ this, then what the hell is our problem? You should just… talk it out like a normal person. Or fuck, argue with me. I understand anger. But don’t just up and leave.”

Geoff’s eyes flicker back up to meet Michael’s; his chest heaves with a breath.

Birds above, fluttering wings. Air in movement.

“I just didn’t know if I should – could – do that,“ he says. “Have you seen yourself in a mirror lately? Compared yourself to me? There's just... _life_ and  _fire_ in you. I can _feel_ your gift, just aching to burst out. Energy and light and I - I can see it in your eyes.” He wets his lips. “You’re young, Michael. Younger, at least.”

“Yeah, the age difference is weird. _Sure,_ it's bit fucked up _._ But there are weirder and more fucked up things, and maybe it wouldn’t have to matter.” Michael searches Geoff’s face for some sign of acceptance, understanding.

Geoff just looks down. “I just don’t think that I’ve… That I’ve a lot to offer. Keep thinking that if you got to know me well enough, you'd just not want to stick around. You just don't know what an asshole I am yet."

"Hey, I can be an asshole, too," Michael says. The mood does not lighten, and he clenches his hands. 

"I shouldn’t have a claim on your future. I don’t deserve that, not as things are right now. I’m just not…” Geoff closes his hands around the light, and everything grows a little darker around them. “Just-“

“I made a choice,” Michael says. His words come out wrong, his voice breaking and he hates it. “I made the choice to kiss you back.”

“You didn’t seem certain about it and I thought that maybe, it wasn't all you. I’ve made you flinch away before –“

“But then, I didn't. And if I hadn't wanted it, you’d have _known_. I would’ve dealt with it. At least I would have dealt with it way better than you are dealing with this. “

“Hey, I’m sorry,” Geoff says, raising his voice a little. “I had to come out here with a delivery anyway soon, and-“

“And I came to get you back home again.”

Geoff opens his hands. “I…”

Light, soft and gold, over the palms. Michael feels fragile in it, bound up in the realization that someone else matters to him more than he had thought possible.

“I guess it’s the magic’s fault,” Geoff says.

“How so?”

“It makes you feel like you’re a god.” Geoff raises his hand and looks at the ink-sky behind it; Michael watches flexing fingers, taut cartilage. “Like you can control everything. The laws that rule everyone else just don’t _apply_ to you.”

Michael says nothing. He swallows, and there’s a lump in his throat.

“And then suddenly there’s just… something completely out of your control that no magic could ever change.”

“Feelings,” Michael mutters.

“Love.”

The trees rustle as if nodding in agreement.  

“I guess I was scared,” Geoff finally says. “Scared of starting this. Scared of a conversation with you.”

“But here we are.”

“Here we are.”

"And we could start this. Be a thing, if you want.” Michael crosses his arms.

“A thing,” Geoff repeats. He leans back, and Michael takes the chance to move in a little closer. There are still a few centimeters of space between them, but in the cold evening that hardly makes a difference. Body heat does not care about barriers like that. Not when both hearts are beating so fast, blood pumping: Michael feels alive.

“You know, _I_ tried to run from my gay feelings,” Michael says, “And it didn’t fucking take. So learn from me, and don’t pull this trick again.”

Geoff smiles – more with his eyes than his mouth, but it is there and it’s warm enough that Michael doesn’t care about the cold.

 _Light_ , Michael thinks, and tries to mimic Geoff’s little spell. A sharp point, a wish for illumination, a word half-spoken, half whispered. Something like a firefly emerges from thin air in Michael’s palm, but he forgot to teach it how to fly. He forgot to think about currents and a need for independence, so it only floats lazily. It doesn’t move like Geoff’s, drifting. It just lies there, flickering.

“Poor little thing,” Geoff comments.

“Help me out, then.”

Geoff reaches out, cupping Michael’s hand in his own, and where they touch Michael feels something like an electrical current. He breathes in a feeling that he knows that they share. He wishes again and feels another force guiding him. The little ball of light grows in strength and starts to shine like an ember straight from the fire, now exempt from gravity.

Michael’s hands feel warm.

“You’d have to face me sooner or later.”

“I knew that,” Geoff replies.

A pause; nothing but the wind in the trees to fill the soundscape.

“But I also knew you. Maybe some part of me was expecting that you’d come and find me.”

“Yeah,” Michael agrees, “Of course I’d find you. Any-fucking-where you go. That’s how much I want this.”

It feels like the tension has ebbed away. Like the light Michael conjured up, it has gone to the wind.

“So what do you want to do?” Geoff relaxes his shoulders and moves a bit closer, their bodies touching. Arms aligning. “Go back? Call each other boyfriends?”

“I didn’t think further than kissing you,” Michael admits. The light in his hand falls from finger to finger, tumbling, trembling.

“Me neither.”

Finally Michael closes his hand around the light. With a single motion, he throws it away – up in the air, far above them, aiming for the stars. “Then let’s not think too much. Let’s just take it as it comes. No drama.”

“We deal with the mess we’ve made.”

Michael smiles at Geoff. “Our mess,” he says, “Sounds good.”

The fake firefly drifts on the wind. Sometimes the light fades and it becomes almost invisible. Sometimes it threatens to blow away, and the whole procedure is very slow.

“There it goes,” Geoff comments.

“You do better,” Michael teases, knowing full and well that Geoff is more than capable of that. And perhaps it is to humor him that Geoff closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Then he exhales, and in the air that leaves him there are words and in those words there is magic.

Fairy-lights.

Michael leans back. His knees knock against Geoff’s and he can hear a heart somewhere underneath the man’s clothes, beat-beat-beating as the lights rise and fall with the breeze. The woods seem too endless and deep for anyone to stumble upon them. They are perfectly hidden from the world: Nobody will see the glow, nor will anybody notice Michael taking Geoff’s hand.

All is warm because everything around them is cold.

All is light because darkness is all there is beyond these pinpricks of light in the air above them, burning, burning, burning.

“You should kiss me again,” Michael says. “Just so I know you mean it.”

“No rush,” Geoff says, a hint of humor in his voice – _so good to have that back_ , Michael thinks – “We’ve got time now.”

It’s not like it is a dream he’ll wake up from.

They lean in towards one another slowly, Geoff looking down but smiling, too, in that expression Michael likes so much. This time is unlike last in so many ways. The hideous urgency has left them both, and they take slow, measured breaths before their lips meet. Michael takes his time to remember the taste and feel of Geoff’s mouth, slowly parting his own lips. His right hand settles draped over Geoff’s waist along the creases of his shirt. A hint of stubble brushes past his cheek.

He wants this. He wants this so much that he can’t believe he thought he could fool himself into thinking something else. At the same time, he feels a bit like he is falling, having no idea how to handle the future that will come of this. No bowls of water could hold all the predictions he could make.

Geoff pulls him closer, and all thoughts dissipate like the clouds in front of the moon.

Michael lets out a low hum in between kisses, in between pushes and pulls. He grabs at the fabric of Geoff’s shirt and lays his head back. Lips find his throat, the side of his neck.

His left hand grabs at the wet leaves underneath both of their bodies.

“Geoff,” he says, a quick staccato sound that draws a corresponding hum out along the line of his collarbone when Geoff answers in turn, saying Michael’s name just for the sake of it. A few lights descend from above as Geoff forgets to keep them there. They balance precariously on the leaves of sad plants around them, like dandelion fluff. A few end up in Geoff’s hair, and Michael pulls back and _laughs_. It all bubbles out of him – denial, fear, anger. Bits and pieces get stuck on the way, sure, and some of it will still haunt him, but right now there is only a shimmering joy that is a shade of summer and Geoff is holding him, actually holding him, out in the middle of a black nowhere, and nothing exists but their bodies and the pines.

“Are you cold?” Geoff asks.

“I’ve got goosebumps,” Michael responds, leaning forward until his forehead rests against Geoff’s. “Fifty-fifty chance it’s the cold.”

“We could go back,” Geoff says, a smile on his face.

Michael nods. “We could go. But just… ten minutes more of this?”

In response Geoff squeezes Michael’s hand a little tighter, leans on him a little more. Michael can feel his weight. He’s thankful for it. Geoff breathes deeply but quickly, a symptom of a quick pulse and a heart that threatens to skip beats – Michael knows because he feels the same. Warmth comes from the crook of Geoff’s arm and the curve of his side.

"When we go, let's drive together," Geoff says. "I'll figure something out."

"Sounds good. No time for useless second guessing." Michael turns his head to kiss Geoff again and catches the corner of his mouth. "And, you know. Time for more making out."

There are so many parts of Geoff that Michael wants to kiss and claim. But more importantly – by far – he wants to sit like this, just together, just being; he wants to talk just to listen to Geoff’s voice. He wants to know what goes on in his head.

Michael brushes a few pine needles, black and brown, off of his hands. Feels relief that he knows Geoff shares. 

 

They sit together until the last of the divine dandelion fluff has faded, disappearing as sparks in between the plants. Michael rests one hand on the ground. The roots of the world vibrate beneath him, the excited hum reverberating up through his bones, heart, lungs. It’s a bit like magic and then somehow not at all.

“ _I’m_ getting cold,” Geoff says.

Now Michael notices the thin, worn sweater, the wind coming towards them from deeper inside the twilight. He picks himself up from the ground. Makes his legs straighten out and bend at the appropriate times, makes the lungs that held too many breaths in the course of the last minutes – how many minutes exactly, he doesn’t know – expand again. He returns to his body, choosing to occupy the whole of it instead of just the parts that touch Geoff.

“Then let’s get you home,” Michael replies.

He takes a step back past the fallen tree and extends a hand back to Geoff, pulls him along. The man stumbles, but smiles anyway. Michael lets go of the hand easily. He wonders about this, briefly, because shouldn’t he be holding on for dear life after all of these strange confessions?

But then again, being able to let go is the beauty of the whole arrangement.

_They’ve got time._

All the time in the world, Geoff’s footsteps say, as they come slow and even. The cold apparently bothers him less now that he knows they are headed towards the cottage and, beyond that, home. He stops every once in a while for no reason, looking up at the stars or in between the trees or at Michael, always offering no explanation but having that look on his face that makes Michael want to forgive anyway.

Is it still hesitation? Fear of heading back with Michael?

 _No_ , says the smile, the way Geoff’s shoulders soften and roll as the lights of the cottage cut clean through the shadows. Michael believes it.

* * *

Joel asks no questions. He tells them to be careful on the dark roads. He says that next time, he’d like it if Geoff wasn’t in such a hurry to get back all of a sudden.

And just before they leave, he pulls Geoff aside and gestures to the map. Michael can’t hear what they’re talking about, and given that the room is so small he dares to guess that Joel has cast a spell to protect whatever secrets they have to hold.

He asks Geoff once they’re on the other side of the front door.

“What did you talk about?”

“Heyman and I,” Geoff answers, “And a few others have a common interest. Solving a kind of mystery. He thinks he’s found a clue. Doesn’t really matter. It’s just something he’s tinkering with for the hell of it.”

“So what is it? Bigfoot's real?”

“Nah, it doesn't matter. I think you left the headlights on over there…”

* * *

The road bends and turns like on the way out, only differently. Nothing looks quite the same because Michael keeps seeing the lines through Geoff’s reflection in the glass.

* * *

“Michael?”

“Yeah?”

“You look tired.”

“I am.”

“Let me take the wheel a while. Promise I won’t drive us into a ditch.”

“…Okay.”

“You can have the blanket, if you’d like.”

* * *

“Geoff? Why are we stopping?”

“I’m not sure where to go from here.”

“Just go left here, then right, I think. Your place. You have an extra bed, right?”

“Mhm.”

“Mind if I crash?”

"No, not at all." 


	10. Good Morning

 

Michael sits at the very edge of the bed, looking at the place where the duvet peels away to expose the mattress. He can see impression he left, an uneven valley with knotted-up springs underneath. There is something else in that bed that he hardly made a dent in. It still belongs to someone else.  Knowing that the door to the hallway is closed, he lowers his head to the fabric and inhales.

It smells of Gavin. Michael had been too tired and high to notice when he went to bed, sleeping when his head hit the pillow, but he notices now, the morning after. He runs his fingertips over the sheets, imagining Gavin doing the same hundreds of times. Gavin trashing around as he wakes, stretching and yawning, and later heading out to meet Geoff.

How many mornings have they shared, the two of them?

Michael can not shake the absurd thought that he is somehow encroaching on Gavin’s territory. Gavin would know that to say to Geoff in this situation; he would have slept in something that might as well be his own bed. Imagining Gavin and Geoff together sends a pang of jealousy through him that he quickly dismisses. It is only natural that he feels that when he likes Geoff.

Geoff, who likes him back.

The thought is weird and fresh and in the forefront of his mind.

In some other part of the house, noise arises with the sun. There is a clatter of pans and glasses, footsteps on those creaky wooden floors. At once Michael both longs and fears leaving the cocoon of this room. As strange as the bed that reminded him of his friend is, it is a known factor. Out there on the other side of the door waits something else, something new. It is exciting - Michael feels like there's bubble expanding in his stomach, vibrant, wonderful, making him light – but still there is fear of it bursting. It is this fear that keeps him still, his body sunken into a mire of hopeless waiting.

And then the waiting comes to an end when his stomach growls. His body makes the decision for him: food, and _now_. Once Michael stands up, taking the next step is easy. He only stops for a few breaths in the door, letting his hand caress the wood of the doorframe.

Living room: empty, light.

_How long did I sleep?_

No clocks. Michael has not noticed before now – or at least not consciously; maybe this is the reason Geoff’s house had seemed to him a timeless place from the start. Wearing yesterday’s clothes, he makes his way through the room as the sounds from the kitchen grow louder.

Beneath the metal-against-metal and the sound of a burning gas flame is a soft humming.

Geoff is standing by the stove, making scrambled eggs. Michael stops in the door to take in the sight: between the moustache, the intensely focused way he glares at the pan and his novelty _Kitchen Witch_ apron, Geoff looks less than diginified. His movements are quick and precise, and he’s wearing all white. The shadows around his bunched-up sleeves are cream-coloured.

“Good morning,” Michael says.

In response, Geoff drops his spatula. 

Michael raises an eyebrow. "Did I startle you?"

“I didn’t hear you coming,” Geoff says, covering his mouth and smile with a hand until he picks up the fallen utensil. 

“It wasn’t on purpose.”

Geoff rinses the spatula and returns to his cooking. "Alright. Do you like scrambled eggs?"

Michael leans back against a counter and watches. "Yeah, sure," he says, "I'm starving." The smell of _food_ starts to spread through the room, but it doesn’t stop everything from feeling a little bit like a dream. Michael looks at the cabinets and drawers, some open, some closed; garlands of garlic spill out, a broken bottle on a shelf keeps breathing dried flower petals into the room. “I could use a glass of water, actually. I don’t know where anything is.”

Geoff turns away from the stove to gesture towards the cabinet to the right of the sink, saying, “Over there.”

Michael finds a glass, and also a half a shelf of horrible novelty mugs. Cartoon witches, cheery cauldrons, ugly patterns.

“What the hell are these?” he asks.

Geoff shrugs. The eggs sizzle, light grey wisps of smoke drift through the kitchen. “It started as a joke. I think it was Gavin’s idea? A ironically bad Christmas present or something.” He sighs, but it sounds almost fond. “Then the others joined in, of course. With enough birthdays and christmasses, you end up with quite a collection. I think it’s just to spite me.”

“When _is_ your birthday?”

”June 19.”

“Summer is still months away,” Michael says. “I’m in late July.”

The question of _what will we be by summer?_   is unspoken between them. 

Geoff plates the eggs and puts the pan in the sink.

While Geoff rummages around the kitchen for bread and utensils, Michael distracts himself from the future by trying to remember how Geoff's kitchen works. He takes note of which drawer contains the knives and which cabinet contains the coffee beans and filters, the cups, and he drinks the last of his water and refills the glass. He finds the forks and brings them with him to the table. 

Sitting in front of a plate of sunshine-yellow eggs on an empty stomach should make Michael focus on the food first and foremost. Michael knows this - it's how it usually works. But Geoff is in front of him, seemingly as uninterested in what he’s made as Michael is. The golden light the surrounds them is more important. The fact that Geoff forgot to take off the apron is more important. His hand rests on the table, and Michael could take it now, if he wanted. When Michael eats, the food tastes like salt and oil, but more importantly, it is an excuse to sit here and talk. That, and a nice gesture.

“Thanks,” Michael says.

“For what?”

“Cooking.”

“Oh.” Geoff rests his head on his hand, elbow on the table. He looks like he has had time to shower sometime while Michael was asleep. His hair is softer, his nails clean. 

Michael takes a bite, salt in his mouth, taste anchoring him in the here-and-now, this is not a dream.

“It tastes good, too,” he says.

“Thanks,” Geoff says. “It’s just eggs. “

Geoff he rubs his eyes and straightens his back, but this time, Michael does not see a tired, burdened man. He believes they are weighted down by the same thing. A feeling between hope and anticipation.

“How did you sleep?” Geoff asks.

“ _Eh_. Good enough,” Michael says. "We’re not here to talk about eggs or sleep.”

Geoff looks completely earnest. He lays down his fork. “I wasn’t trying to talk around anything. It’s just… _I_ was really tired. I slept like a stone - woke at seven out of habit. I was still tired, but I didn’t fall asleep again. This might sound  _creepy,_ but I could feel your prescence through the walls. I could hear you sometimes, sighing in your sleep, and I got up and actually cooked breakfast for the first time in a while so you’d have something good to wake up to.” He folds his hands in front of him. “I guess I’m trying to say I like this.“

“I liked waking up here, too,” Michael says. “Though…”

Geoff looks from his hands to Michael, a worried shadow falling over him. “Though?”

“Though next time, maybe I won't be waking up in the guest bed…?”

He can practically hear Geoff’s sigh of relief as he shakes his head. “That’s forward.”

Michael shrugs. “Isn’t step one to a healthy relationship, like, good communication of _wants_ and _needs_?” he says, an almost mocking tone to his voice. 

“Oh, I want that, too.” Geoff’s voice drops a little lower, in a way Michael already now knows that he loves. “But don't you think we need to take it a little slower? What are we trying to make here? What should we call… this?”

“Heavy questions for breakfast,” Michael says, underlining his words by taking a big bite of food. The chewing buys him time to think. “I guess… I don’t know. I don’t know!” He leans back in his chair, two legs of the ground. Admitting it is nice. ”I guess I want to sleep with you, but also have an actual relationship, like. Maybe I just want your attention. I’m probably scaring you away.”

“No.” Geoff takes a deep breath. “I’ll take what you’re giving. I _want_ to be good for you.”

“I remember," Michael says. He pauses before he goes on.. "That’s the reason for the whole running-away-thing that just happened, right? You were scared that you weren’t.”

“There’s just – There’s so many things to deal with. Like, what do we tell the others? And the age - fuck, Michael, the fucking age difference, the fact that I have half a life of mistakes behind me…  I don't want to make another with you."

"I don't think we will," Michael says, "I don't think that at all." A little  _we_ snuck its way in instead of  _you_ , and Geoff notices. 

Michael looks at Geoff’s face and the wrinkles in his shirt. At the hands that can do so much and are scarred and burned from things Michael can’t imagine. And at eyes that say that despite how Geoff feels, he’s not that much older. Doesn’t feel like it now when they are in front of each other. Michael reaches out for him, suddenly and quickly, and seizes him by the front of his shirt.

With surprising ease, he pulls Geoff into a kiss, leaning across the table, and the position makes it last just an instant that is enough.

Geoff looks a little breathless when he sinks back into his chair.

Michael feels himself growing warmer, redder – “Do you think I expected this to be easy? Do you think I can’t handle whatever shit comes at us?” He keeps standing, feeling light, light-headed almost. Still smiling through it, still with that bubble inside him. “I’ll take what comes. I’ll take a lot, for you.”

“Big words,” Geoff remarks, “Knowing you, it's true though.” It sounds like the truth, and he meets Michael’s eyes effortlessly. “Maybe you should finish up and we can do the dishes together.”

“We also need to make some plans.”

“For what?”

“If we’re doing this, we gotta do it right,” Michael says, “I’m not cheap, Geoff. You gotta take me on a proper first date.”

Geoff chuckles. “Oh, you’re right. We have to start this properly, huh?”

“I don’t make the dating rules!”

“My scrambled eggs aren’t cutting it?”

Michael’s stomach growls. “Your eggs are great,” he says, “And speaking of them, I’m going to devour the rest now.”

* * *

Meanwhile, a few miles away, **Gavin** makes a mistake.

He wakes up in the dark, but for a moment his watering, tired eyes see little blue stars and pinpricks of bioluminescence around his room. It fades into the lights of electronics - his smartphone, the blinking laptop charger, the TV. He sits up in his bed, feels his head grow heavy, lays back down. God, he just wants to crawl back into the first delusion, into a cave of wierd science and dream.

His life is contained in these circuit boards around his bed and in the pockets of his coat slung over the back of a chair. Everytime he puts it on or takes it off, the granola bars and candy wrappers hidden inside make soft, crinkling noises. He has to keep them around as long as his job security comes from his Gift. He's been shooting the last four days. Various commercials, an episode of a TV-series, things he doesn't care to remember. That there is work is good, but the lethargy afterwards is hell. Everytime his Gift aided the camera, it has made it a little harder for him to keep up.

Today, he doesn't intend get out of bed before noon. He has set the day aside for recharging like he was one of his machines.

The most active thing he does is reach out for his smartphone. As with all the other little lights, the one blinking on this bit of tech is mostly a reminder of how alone he is despite the multitude of ways people could contact him. He has heard the doctrine over and over - _technology only brings us further away from each other_ \- and it's bullshit, but sometimes it feels slightly less so. No messages for him. Michael _should_ have sent a text by now, a triumphant declaration of having found Geoff. Or at least some angry rant about how he had to get himself home at 2AM or something.

Nothing.

Nothing from Geoff either even though the man must have known that Gavin would be worried, just slightly, after 24 hours of no contact. Okay, it's not like he always _has_ to know what Geoff is doing at all times. The other man has been on plenty of trips where he's been gone for days without Gavin throwing a fit about it since they're both grown adults and all, but still... Maybe it would have been nice if it hadn't been so sudden, if Geoff hadn't only thought about Michael.

Gavin leaves the phone and rolls onto his back. His ceiling is grey, the only surface in his room without posters. His hands go back under the covers.

He has the morning to himself.

He's fustrated - with Michael, with Geoff, with being reduced to a normal human being for even just a day.

There remains one easy way of removing that fustration, even if its just for a few minutes.

He shifts around, his hand drifting lower along his inner thigh and the edge of his boxers. Shutting his eyes, he blocks out the little blue lights and tries to think of something better. Some part of him feels like it's cheap to just think of porn - one could at least _try_ to have some kind of original fantasies - but it's not like it matters. It's not like he wants anything but quick relief. His fingers drip beneath the elastic, and when the first thing that comes into his head is a porn star from a clip he's watched, he runs with it. Blonde hair, big, real breasts, a voice that almost became shrill as he co-star had thrust into her-

By the time he is free of his underwear he is already half-hard in his hand. He strokes himself, not really caring about his fantasy as long as it keeps him going. The woman - he doesn't remember the name, although he knows it was a pseudonym like Angel or Nicki or something like that - kneels down in front of him, or at least someone like him, a stand-in in a film clip, and parts her cherry-red lips. Licks and swallows down in a way that Gavin can only try to emulate with his fingers, swiping his thumb up across the head of his cock and thrusting up into his palm.

His pulse grows louder and quicker, his breaths shallower. He can hear his heartbeat below the sound of blood flowing and the bedsheet rustling when he moves. But still, for some reason and even though he has no trouble remembering a hundred things he's seen or imgained before, stock fantasies to fall back on, his movements go slow and steady and there's no real need. No want for more, more. Nothing like usual, not enough.

Gavin licks his lips and draws in a breath.

Maybe a new angle, if the old fantazies aren't cutting it. Maybe someone else's hand instead of his, maybe - he opens his eyes for a moment, sees the bedside table, the smartphone, and for some reason his brain supplies _Michael_. Just a flash of the two of them sitting next to each other on Geoff's couch and Michael reaching over to touch Gavin's skin, how he'd look if he was out of breath, how he'd smell... It's all disturbingly easy.

There's a little voice in Gavin's head that comes with all sorts of protests. _You're being creepy, stop it, friends don't think about friends that way_ , but Gavin is too far gone already.

It's so easy to imagine Michael's hand on Gavin's now-hard cock. And then him leaning in, maybe even whispering -  _Yeah, does that feel good, Gavin?_

Gavin buckles his hips and thrusts forward and up, shuddering. Pleasure builds steadily now, warmth in his stomach spreading downwards. Every stroke feels better than the last, and he drags it out, adds a flick of his wrist, imagines that someone else is in control instead.

He's so close that he might as well keep going, right? This is harmless, and he's never going to think of this again once he's finished - all he needs is to get off this once, and for some reason his heart beats faster just thinking about how Michael would sound if he moaned, his voice low just by Gavin's ear - _Fuck, Gavin, you look good like that..._

He knows that he's just putting words into Michael's mouth. That the dialouge is probably twenty different kinds of cliche. The only problem is that he doesn't care. One hand grips onto the sheets while the other moves on his cock, slick with pre-come. He arches his back trying to get just a bit more pleasure to send himself over the edge, his head lolling to one side, a low groan escaping him.

Maybe Michael would like to be in charge - he has that air about him - and try to take it slow just to hear Gavin _whine_ like he does now. Maybe he'd want Gavin to struggle to get enough friction, keeping him carefully on edge until finally outright telling him to _come, c'mon baby, come for me_ -

Gavin exhales heavily as he reaches his peak, muscles tensing and then relaxing, feet and fingers drawing deep creases in the bedsheet. He feels the distinct sensation of come streaking his fingers, some dripping onto his stomach. Of course he was too lost in everything to get a tissue, and of course he can't collect himself quick enough to get one now. He feels almost paralyzed for a few seconds as the last waves run through him.

He covers his eyes with the back of his clean hand and sighs.

The first thought that emerges from the blessed blankness of his orgasm is _why_. The second is a succinct _what the fuck_. The third is whether or not Michael would ever call him _baby_ ; maybe it'd be _boy_ or _Gav_ or...

Regardless, Gavin hasn't felt this much shame after masturbating for years.

The last thought before he gets up is _Michael will never call you_ anything. _You're Gavin to him. You're friends._

He vows to not screw this up and swears by his reflection in the bathroom mirror to forget about the whole episode. Cleaning himself in the shower becomes almost methaphorical.

But at least work isn't dragging him down anymore.

He sort of has bigger things to worry about now.

* * *

 **Geoff** approaches Michael from behind and trails his hands down the other man’s arms, all the way down to the soapy water. Michael had taken initiative, insisting on doing the dishes in return, and Geoff can’t really complain. The kitchen floor is cold against his feet, but the water is warm.

“Can you get something to dry them off with?” Michael says, gesturing to the plates in the sink.

Geoff hums in response while a drawer flies open in the other end of the room. “Come,” he tells the cloth, and it makes a few unsteady dips and dashes on the way, but eventually it arrives in Michael’s hands. He doesn’t react like it is anything out of the ordinary. Then again, by now it might not be. Not for Michael who adapts quickly, even to the feelings between them.

Geoff blames it on the age difference.

Michael wants everything fast with that kind of youthful greed. Geoff likes it - he remembers it from a younger self long ago, and yet it doesn’t make him feel old. He feels about the same as Michael with many things: if they can agree on loving each other, then they are perhaps not so different at all.

It’s something new to feel desired so wholly.

Geoff steps away from Michael, but stays beside him.

Geoff wants slow, steady, and plenty of time for Michael to turn around because despite how full of himself Geoff knows he can be, he’s not brave enough to declare that he’s the one Michael should be with. But he hopes like hell that Michael won’t reconsider.

“When will you be free to… do something?” Geoff asks, “That date?”

There’s a long pause. Geoff imagines Michael biting thoughtfully at the inside of his cheek like he does – perhaps unknowingly - when he concentrates on a spell. “I’m free whenever,” he finally says. “It’s almost weird. I mean, I know your house, but _you_ don’t know where _I_ live. We see each other so often but it’s not been like…”

“Like boyfriends?”

Michael finishes the dishes, throwing the cloth to the side of the sink. “It sounds weird when you say it. I don’t know. Kind of… young? Childish?”

“But everything else sounds weird as dicks, don’t it?”

“'Boyfriends' is fine.”

There’s a pause. Geoff’s thoughts are already drifting ahead, out towards other evenings. Then, Michael’s voice -

“It feels like we're doing this all out of order.”

“Is it…”

“It’s okay.” Michael exhales on the next words so they sound exhilarated, vibrant, light. “It’s all okay.”

Geoff smiles at the sound and lets the counter dig into his hip as he leans forward. “What are we telling the others, by the way?”

“Hm. “ Michael crosses his arms.

Geoff wonders what Michael is planning on telling his friends – all the people Geoff doesn’t know, who exist in a separate kind of reality. He speaks slowly, saying, “Gavin’s going to find out sooner or later-”

“Make that soon, period,” Michael interjects. “I don’t think you can keep secrets from that guy.”

“He’s always around,” Geoff admits, “And he’s a good friend. He ought to know.”

“What happens, happens,” Michael says. His eyes dart to the window. The sun is finally clear of the horizon. “We could just come clean to everyone. You think they’d judge?”

“I don’t think it’d be a problem.”

 “Neither do I. So, looking forward to you picking me up someday, and a proper date. I’m going to get out my nicest shirt and everything.” He still seems a little distant while he talks, making Geoff think that he doesn’t use his nicest shirt very often. “By the way, Geoff, I’m dying to know what you look like in a straight shirt.”

“Not a lot about me is straight,” Geoff deadpans.

“Don’t get me wrong. You look good in your normal clothes, too.” He hesitates for a moment. Like he is in deep water. “I’m just… curious as to what it’d be like.” And suddenly a devilish impulse makes him smile so that Geoff can see his canines-  “And maybe what you’d look like without a shirt at all.”

“Oh,” is all Geoff says. He hopes Michael isn’t picking up on his sharp intake of breath. He probably is. He notices a mason jar on a shelf that absolutely needs to be closed correctly, and sets about fixing that problem. 

“I don’t know how many tattoos you have…”

Geoff first response would be laughing, something almost comical about the situation. It’s like they’re teens, first love all over again. He doesn’t laugh – instead he plays along. “You could find out soon enough.”

But not today, apparently, which is fine by Geoff. Michael stops halfway through a thought, mouth open, but glance suddenly stopping by the clock. “Not if I don’t want to be late for a million things, though,” he says. “Fuck, I could just skip.”

“It’s fine by me if you have things to do,” Geoff says, and despite himself he actually does feel a little disappointed.

Still, even when Michael is leaving, he feels light on his feet. Geoff stands in the door, watching him go. It takes the both of them ten minutes to get further than the doorstep; Michael almost doesn’t want to leave.

Taking it slow is a kind of sweet misery all of its own.

“See you,” Geoff says. He’s closed the front door behind him. It is cold outside, the brittle calm of winter long settled on the quiet street. Michael doesn’t care for the peacefulness of it all. He kisses Geoff, pressing him up against the door. If the neighbors are watching, so fucking be it.

Geoff leans into it, reaching up to push a lock of hair back behind Michael’s ear. When they part, their breath is all mixed up in a mist between them.

“Everything is going to be all right now.” Michael says. It is not directed at Geoff; it is a threat to the world.  _Or else._

* * *

 **Gavin** feels nothing but relief - the proper, platonic ideal of it - when he sees Geoff whole and in one piece and in his home a few days later. Gavin had to invite himself over, but he can’t get himself worked up enough to get actually mad at Geoff. He just shakes his head and makes coffee and takes both of their minds off of the incident.

“It was just some urgent business,” Geoff explains, “Hullum really needed an extra pair of hands, and I had to pull through. Some other stuff, too, but-”

“It’s okay,” Gavin says, “I drank your beer with the others, so we’re equal.”

“You did what?”

“You heard me.” Gavin grins, throws Geoff his controller and swallows down any lingering insecurity. What he and Geoff has is good. No need to ruin it; no need to suspect anything.

Silence falls between them broken only by a content sigh from Geoff as he leans back into the couch. One hand goes through his hair, another rests in his lap.

Gavin bolts from the couch, saying, “I’m just going to get the charger I forgot in the guest room before I forget again.”

“Huh,” Geoff says. “OK.”

 But in the guest room, the room Gavin almost thinks of as his own, he immediately notices that the bed is not as he left it. Gavin notices those kinds of things. The bedcovers are bunched up in the foot end when Gavin himself always leaves them trailing down to the floor. The pillow is where it should be, not where Gavin usually leaves it squashed against the wall. 

He figures that it is Michael again. A spectre of him, at the very least.

Michael might have looked at the empty bed and thought of Gavin when he was there, and that thought just unthreatening enough that Gavin can keep it in the back of his mind. He finds the charger and wraps the chord in and under and over his fingers. If Michael slept there, he and Geoff must’ve parted as friends. That’s good.

All that Gavin wants will only ever be that they can all be  _friends._

That none of them ever decide to mistrust each other or turn cold and distant.

Which means that he himself is also going to do neither of those things – he’s going to return to Geoff’s side with a smile on his face and ask about Michael with a tone that makes it sound like it’s just a throwaway thing, not something he figured out from standing in the room, staring at the bed. 

“Yeah,” Geoff says in response, “We had a long talk. It’s all good now.”

“That’s good.”

Gavin clicks his tongue.

Geoff looks like he’s conflicted, tilting his head from one side to the other while he decides whether to speak or not. Gavin knows the look.

“Spit it out,” he says, and Geoff stops.

“Well,” he begins. “…There’s kind of more to it than that. Lets see in a couple days.”

“Sure.”

After all, Gavin can trust Geoff to tell him important things because Geoff wouldn’t keep secrets from him. Gavin leans against Geoff, their shoulders bumping into each other, and neither of them care as they sit on the floor, eyes fixed on the screen in front of them. Gavin likes the closeness not because of what it is but because of what it means. He knows that he’s selfish, taking up Geoff’s time and space, but Geoff wants him there. Every touch says that.

“This is pretty good,” Gavin says, talking not about the game but the situation – the room, the calm, the day. Being in the house just the two of them, laughing at inside jokes that they are the only ones who would ever get.  

Geoff understands that. He gets himself killed in the game, his part of the screen a sudden strawberry-red. In response he swears – a quick _fuck_ more breathed than said out loud – and lays his controller on his lap. He stretches his arms skyward, but one of them comes to rest on Gavin’s shoulders, light and easy. “It is,” he says. “Anything in particular bringing that on?”

“No,” Gavin says, shaking his head. A shot hits his virtual self directly in the chest. “ _Bloody_ _hell_ ,” he adds.

He, too, leans back. It brings him some level of comfort to know that although his brain is being weird about Michael, Geoff is just Geoff. The arm around his shoulders is platonic, and nothing is happening just because they’re so close together.

Everything is completely fine.

Now Gavin’s heart just has to get with the program and slow down a little. It’s even more infuriating because he’s _good_ at slowing things down, so why the hell can’t he control his own body or the thoughts racing along?

“ _Oh_!” Geoff exclaims, his arm suddenly gone as he clasps his hands together.  His tone is mocking. “You saw Michael slept here. You’re afraid the new member of our group is going to fuck it all up!”

“It’s not-“

“Afraid of getting replaced?” Geoff teases, but he doesn’t keep it up. Not with the way Gavin refuses to laugh. He eases back into his previous, relaxed position, sighing softly. “Calm down, Gav. Just kidding. I have a good feeling about all of this.”

“So do I,” Gavin lies.

 


	11. Gibes and Gambols

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is a referenece to Hamlet, which makes me feel clever. The whole Yoric thing is kind of meant as a reference to Ryan's GTA mask. And Gavin suffers.  
> This chapter has an image in it!

Gavin does not go straight home.

He takes a long, long detour, a gentle breeze blowing against him. He stretches out his fingers and feels the air move between them, around his hands.

He stops on the outskirts of town, surrounded by dead grass and grey sky. Looking up, he almost blinds himself, and while the black spots fade from his vision he kicks a thistle in half-hearted anger. The sun is being a fickle bitch, neither here nor there as it shifts between blindingly bright and all covered up by clouds.

 _So far, it’s a very productive afternoon_ , he thinks sarcastically. 

It’s not the first time Gavin has found his way out here without even meaning to. He has been straying to fields lately, looking for places like where he got lost oh-so-many days ago. Some small part of him keeps wondering if the strange phenomenon will repeat itself. Maybe he even yearns for those voices to come back, but right now he can’t make himself listen. There are too many other sounds, like that of his blood rushing through his veins and distant cars out on the road – but not rolling thunder.

He watches the bird fly in formation above, sharp V’s against the sky, and it is all very quiet.

Gavin _wants_ the world to echo his feelings. The knots inside him might loosen if there was more noise and movement around him. Just a little rain to make it blur at the edges, a little storm to tear down some defiant saplings, a little bite from the winter that is losing its grip as the year drags on and on. If any of that came, it would remind him of Michael. 

Almost everything does, lately. Loud, passionate Michael, making Gavin not _scared,_ but curious _. He_ is not the fragile one. What’s fragile is all the things around them. Their friends, relationships, the whole circle. Gavin is afraid of ruining the friendships they have.  

Nature around him does not care. No voices come from the soil to call to him, no humming. No strange feelings, only an unease that settles in him. He carries it home as a black sludge in his belly and something bitter in his breathe.

 _Please_ , he thinks, _let there be rain_.

* * *

Night. Another day, the bile somehow still at the back of his throat despite the time that has passed.

Gavin sits cross-legged with his laptop on his lap, typing rude comments in the Google document spellbook. On the very first page, he writes in big letters: “Michael, you should write in red!”

But nobody comments on the brief notes Gavin writes. No red text appears.

Gavin stares at the screen of his phone and sends Michael a message – " _good night, boi"_ – just for kicks. He receives a single response.

_“Night”_

Then Michael has ended the conversation, and aGvin can’t make himself write more.

Geoff is just plain unresponsive.

The computer shines a pale white light on Gavin’s hands as he types.

* * *

 

* * *

When he sees Michael again, he regrets it soon after.

It all happens because Gavin comes an hour earlier than had said he would. His scarf is not enough to protect him against the freezing wind. The air smells like rain, so he walks briskly. The whole street is empty.

He stops in the garden in front of Geoff’s house and takes a moment to breathe.

He feels peaceful, finally, because he knows this. Weekend hangouts, beer in Geoff’s fridge, bad jokes and videogames and beautiful spellwork. And if Michael is there, that’ll be alright. He has convinced himself of that much. After all, the sooner he learns to be around the other man, the sooner everything will go back to normal, and it’ll be like he never got a crush at all.

Then he looks in through the kitchen window.

He doesn’t mean to spy, but a cursory glance ends up lingering.

On the other side of the glass he sees Michael. He is sitting on a counter and Geoff is leaning in towards him and they are _kissing_ , actual open-mouthed, messy kissing, and the more Gavin looks the more horrible details reveal themselves. Michael’s legs are around Geoff’s waist, Geoff’s tattooed fingers are in Michael’s hair. It looks like copper in the bright light. The only mercy is that they are clothed, and Gavin fears that even that might not last if he doesn’t announce his presence soon.

That explains it, he thinks, standing in the cold. His breath becomes so many clouds drifting away around him. Michael’s radio silence, how busy Geoff has been, the thing that neither of them talk about.

Gavin shakes his head.

He decides that he is happy.

He _has_ to be happy, because _they_ sure are judging from how they’re smiling when they part. A very small, disgusting part of Gavin whispers that Michael’s look is going to be fodder for so many more masturbatory fantasies:  _Look at how red his lips are. How he leans forward into someone who could have been you-_

Gavin buries his face in his scarf and lets out a long, shuddering breath. There is a metallic taste in his mouth. It could be from the wool, little fibers brushing against his lips. He takes two quick steps to the door and knocks twice.

When he pulls down the scarf again, he’s smiling.

Michael opens the door slowly. A click and a creak and his body appearing inch by inch: Gavin’s eyes dart to his neck, but he sees no marks. If there is evidence – not that it matters - it must be lower, under his t-shirt.

Gavin says, cheerfully, “Hi, Michael!”

“Hey,” Michael says. Gavin can hear in his voice that he’s glad to see him. Honestly, simply glad, without a head full of ulterior motives. “You’re early.” It’s not an accusation, just a statement of fact.

“I am. Came early just for the hell of it.” Gavin steps past Michael, like it will be easier once he isn’t standing right in front of him.

Inside, it’s warm and light.

Gavin begs the electric yellow not to exorcise the wintery cold in him, because being unable to feel your fingers is better than focusing on what you _can_ feel. He wrings his hands, making his joints pop. The silence is only comfortable for two out of three people in the room. How long has it been, Gavin thinks, since Michael and Geoff had their rendezvous? Only a week, and still he can see that they have in-jokes and habits by now. 

Geoff leaves the room with an excuse that Gavin doesn’t hear above his own thoughts. 

Michael is left, with casual slumped shoulders and a canvas colored hoodie, checking his phone.

Gavin speaks loudly just so there’ll be _noise_.

“You’re around early, too!”

“Mhm,” Michael answers. He places his phone on the table, claiming just a little more space as _his_. “It worked out that way.” He looks at Gavin and smiles in a way that probably was intended to seem friendly, but makes Gavin think of how many words Michael is keeping back behind his teeth.

He doesn’t bring it up.

“Do you want to watch some telly?” he asks instead, deliberately choosing the Brittish word because he knows it’ll make Michael smile and agree.

They watch the news together, neither of them ever getting around to changing the channel. Michael texts Ray every once in a while. Geoff comes in occasionally, sits down for five minutes and then gets up again. 

Gavin is a fidgeting mess, but he tries not to show it. He reminds himself that Michael has no way of knowing all the things Gavin has thought. All the things he thinks. (Twice since last time he’s been in bed, trying to get off, getting distracted by intrusive thoughts about Michael’s lips or voice or how it’d feel to grind up against him, only he promised himself that he isn’t going to give into them again-)

The weather report is hosted by a small man in a brown suit. He has this smile that seems too wide for his face. The map behind him is covered in little black clouds, and he points to them over and over. “ _Some weird weather we’re having here, but it comes with the season, doesn’t it Janice? It’s almost spring, and that’s a season of change – and now the last week we’ve seen change from clear weather to rain, and this week will be no different-“_

“I’m going to put some mason jars out,” Gavin says, mostly to himself. “There’s power in storm water.”

“I don’t think I _own_ a mason jar,” Michael says.

“I’d give you one, if you’d like.”

Michael shrugs. “Thanks, I guess. Don’t know what I’m going to do with it.”

“You’ll find something. You always need a jar for something.”

Geoff wanders through the room, passing by them, engrossed in a conversation on the phone.

“So you’re the only one who’s – Yeah, okay, fine – No, I can only say that I need it now, can’t say why-“

Michael looks at Gavin, all question marks. He waits until Geoff has left the room before scooting a few conspiratorial inches closer.

_“We’ll be seeing a lot of rain and more and more wind – why, tomorrow we’ll have something like a storm brewing, so stay indoors and don’t put that coat away just yet!”_

“The weather is getting kind of fucked up, too” Michael muses. “Storms don’t usually come until march.”

“Look at us.” Gavin sighs as contently as he can with all the stress weighing at the back of his skull. “Talking about the weather.”

“I don’t mind if we just chill. Doesn’t mean we’re boring.”

“Maybe not,” Gavin responds.

“We can just watch _telly_ together,” Michael says in a fake British accent – then he looks at Gavin inquisitively, one eyebrow raised. “’Was wondering, do you never get tired of being the subject of jokes about how you talk?”

Gavin leans back and looks at the screen as a commercial fades in. It’s shoddy camera work. He could do far better with a _handheld_. “No,” he says. He feels his smile turn genuine. “I don’t mind being the punchline as long as the joke is yours.”

* * *

Ryan turns up after twenty more minutes of chatting about the news and the weather – inconsequential, small topics that would have bothered Gavin had he been talking with anyone else. With Michael, it’s okay.

Ryan announces his arrival through the sound of rustling in the entranceway and a large amount of things bumping into other things as he makes his way to Michael and Gavin. His make-up is not up to par. More smeared than usual.

“In a hurry?” Gavin asks.

“Little bit,” Ryan admits. He raises a duffel bag. “Have you heard about Ray and Jack?”

“What?”

“They’re not gonna make it. So I thought I’d bring Yorick for company.”

From the kitchen, Gain can hear a beep when Geoff hangs up the phone followed by a cracked “You did what?!”

“I bought Yorick!” Ryan repeats, his voice light and cheerful. Gavin feels a sort of impish glee in knowing what is about to transpire and sends Michael a _wait-and-see-this-is-going-to-be-great-_ glance.

Ryan places the bag on the table and unzips it theatrically. Something moves beneath the canvas.

Geoff emerges, two mugs in each hand (Gavin is pleased to see his own gag gift among them – _“My other mug is a cauldron!”)_ and a decidedly sour expression on his face. “You know that thing gives me the creeps.”

“Now I’m curious,” Michael interjects. “Just pull it out already.”

Gavin mumbles, ”That’s what she said.”

He receives a playful punch on the shoulder and returns his attention to Ryan, who is now freeing Yorick from his cloth prison. At first, he only catches a glimpse of white under Ryan’s broad hands. Then there is a surge of energy, and then - Gavin gauges Michael’s reaction when the skull ascends, hovering five feet above the floor, and finds his shocked expression very satisfying.

“Alas _indeed_ ,” Michael says.

The skull turns to him, and Gavin knows from experience that the empty blackness where its eyes should be can be hard to meet. Michael stares defiantly, looking the skull directly in the eye sockets. 

Ryan clears his throat. “Michael, meet Yoric – and the other way ‘round. C’mere, boy.”

Yorick returns to Ryan’s side, hovering just to his right.

“You can’t call to it like it’s a _dog_ ,” Geoff says bitterly.

“Then how _should_ I talk to it?” Ryan crosses his arms. “At least Michael appreciates it.”

Michael reaches out to touch the bone, and Gavin watches him from a perch on the backrest of the couch. Michael’s fingers twitch when he makes contact, and then he roughly grabs the skull and pulls it closer. “Is this… real?”

“The skull?” Ryan asks, “As far as I know, yes. Be careful with it! Don’t – just let it hover where it wants.”

When Michael lets go, Yorick returns to Ryan again, shaking side to side as it goes.

“If you’re about to ask where he got it from, don’t bother,” Gavin says. “The bastard hasn’t told it yet.”

“We’re placing bets on when the police gets him for murder,” Geoff says offhandedly, setting the table. “Stupid thing-”  As if on cue, Yorick turns 90 degrees and floats a little closer to Geoff, startling him enough that the mugs clatter against one another. Gavin hears Geoff mutter something that sounds like “fucking Shakespeare.”

Michael seems more appreciative of the specimen that Yorick is. Like any normal human being, he raises an eyebrow when Ryan takes a seat and it places itself like a cat in his lap, but otherwise he just seems fascinated by it. “So,” he says, “It’s pointless, but neat. And excellent for keeping Geoff at bay.”

“Shut up,” Geoff says. “I’m just taking the chair furthest away because it’s the comfiest.”

“Of course you do,” Ryan replies, stroking the skull tenderly.

“It’s not _right_.”

Michael gets a decidedly mischievous expression on his face and, with an exaggerated, theatrical snap of his fingers, points at Yorick. Two little flames light up in its eye sockets, burning bright orange.

“I improved it,” he states. “You’re welcome.”

Ryan looks down at the skull. Yorick looks back at him with eyes made of fire. He shrugs and resumes petting it. “That’s… fine.”

Geoff sighs and shakes his head. “That wasn’t needed,” he says, “Don’t support Ryan’s weird ideas.” He side-eyes Yorick. “At least the thing isn’t talking.”

Immediately, he gains the look of a man who knows that he has just tempted fate.

“Could we _make_ it talk?” Gavin asks.

“You’d just teach it bad words,” Ryan says. “It wouldn’t have an intelligence either, so there wouldn’t really be a point to it.”

Geoff sighs with relief.

“Aw.” Gavin slumps down. “Then what should we do now?”

Michael and Geoff exchange glances like they’ve talked about something. Like they have an idea about what _they’d_ like to do, and it makes Gavin itch to reclaim Michael’s attention. Geoff’s too, actually – every second he feels like a third wheel makes him feel like he’s being run over.

Nothing comes of it, though.

“How about we wreak some havoc?” Gavin hears himself saying. “The storm’s coming anyway. We could hurry it up a smidge.” And as he speaks, he feels the desire growing in him – he could pour himself into something greater. The storm, the wind – it was always his element – he could channel all his urges into something else.

“Sure,” Ryan says, “I mean, we’re not doing any harm since it’s coming anyway, are we…?” The question trails off, and nobody answers. “But I don’t know how much help I’ll be. I’m pretty tired. Not sleeping well.”

All four people stare at each other, and Gavin wonders if they are all thinking the same thing: _Are any of us really sleeping well? Don’t we all look a little out of it?_

“Bad dreams?” Geoff asks, and Ryan nods in response. “We could… I don’t know. Have tea, talk wards against nightmares?”

“I’ve tried almost every spell in the book already,” Ryan admits, his voice lower now. “I think I’m good staying inside. You can, uh, go get rained on, Gavin.”

That settled, Michael is the first to rise, and he pulls Gavin along by his wrist – “Let’s do it, Gav!” And he looks at Geoff, saying “You too.” Geoff follows them, no longer looking as heavy and tired, Michael inspiring something decidedly different in him. Michael, the philosopher’s boy, turning leaden limbs light as gold.

_They’re going to be good for each other, him and Geoff._

* * *

They stand in the grass, a small circle – well, more of a triangle, really. Gavin flexes his fingers.

Unlike Michael, he knows his way around weather magic. And also unlike Michael, he knows that Geoff is bad at it, and that this is why the older man is looking so nervous now.

“Ready, Geoff?” he asks.

Geoff nods like he has just been insulted, wiping his palms on his jeans.

Gavin can not see any clouds now, but he can feel that the weather report wasn’t lying. Something is coming. A storm is on the horizon, hours away, but it can be quickened.

He understands why people worshipped thunder gods. There’s something in the storm that is big and powerful enough to be worthy of reverence. Capable of ripping apart and carrying away. He used to set up cameras in his windows to make timelapses of the clouds rolling in, capturing every shade of grey and blue as it came. Now, when the sky changes color, he knows what each subtle shift means. He raises his hands.

Syllables roll off his tongue like rainwater drops, the incantation still familiar to him. Perhaps he could achieve what he wanted with simple English, but he doesn’t even try. He found the words in an older tongue, and he keeps to that spell because it works the best, makes his hairs stand on end, and the others know that. They don’t speak. They only follow his lead, and he feels himself getting high on the magic.

(He is hurrying along the destruction of gardens, the upheaval of trees and the drowning of highways – but he can’t bring himself to _care_ , because it was going to happen anyway).

In a fit of impulsivity – and it feels like the impulse comes from outside his body, from the electrical charge in the air – he reaches out for Michael and Geoff.

With Michael’s hand in his left and Geoff’s in his right, it’s far easier for them to lend him their Gifts. Geoff says a few words at the same time as Gavin, their voices one, and Gavin closes his eyes.

Michael says _"lieg"_ , lightening, even though Gavin doubts he knows the language.

And lightening comes.

It leaps between the clouds that gather overhead. Gavin feels his heart leap with it, through and under and over all the black and grey above. The wind picks up. Cold water hits his arms like little pinpricks, and the droplets roll down his skin.

He opens his eyes.

The world is darker now. Michael and Geoff are looking up, illuminated by equal parts rapidly fading sun and blue electricity as thunder rolls in around them. Gavin squeezes their hands a little tighter, even though they’re all slick from the rain now and it’s getting hard to hold on. Michael is laughing, Geoff is smiling and the moment is so perfect that Gavin wishes time would stop.

So it does.

It’s hard to cast the spell, and Gavin knows that it is foolish. He is already expending energy on the weather, and now he’s adding to that, slowing down time until the droplets hang suspended in mid-air. The sound of the thunder becomes an endless hum, like distorted whale-song from an ocean of frozen cumulus clouds.

He looks to Geoff and the trails of water running down his arms, tries to remember if any of his tattoos have switched places since he last saw them. All the shadows on his face seem so much lighter and softer out here. His forehead shines with sweat, but the furrows are gone. Even though it’s probably strange to stare that long at a friend’s eyes, Gavin likes the spark he sees in the blue.

Slowly, Gavin turns, aware of what waits to his left.

Michael’s hair is whipped up by the wind. The curls go everywhere, and his mouth is open, frozen in the middle of a word or a shout of joy. He looks so exhilarated, so alive.

It is hard to look away.

Gavin opens his mouth and draws in a quick gasp of air.

He’s greedy, he’s in love and he’s _fucked_ , but he can’t bring himself to care.

The moment passes, time picks up, the storm comes in with a hundred miles an hours and knocks Gavin down in the grass where he lies like a thrown ragdoll, looking up at the sky.

The storm has arrived. 

(It was going to happen anyway).

Cold water seeps into his clothing from the grass, and his back hurts. Blood courses through his veins so fast he can hear it, like the ocean through a shell. He closes his eyes and feels the rain on his face. He has no energy left. He knows that black spots and vertigo is waiting for him once he opens his eyes again, so he lies still.

It feels a bit like he _is_ the shell, empty on the inside, but able to give anyone the wind and the ocean.

A second later he has no idea where _that_ thought came from, and he lets Geoff pull him up. He almost slips in the grass. 

Despite it all, it’s so nice to be touched and needed and enveloped in a half-hug as they get back inside.

“That was so cool,” Michael says, breathless, and Geoff nods in agreement.

Gavin smiles and feels his limbs fall asleep. Static in his hands. “I guess it was. Should’ve gotten it on camera, though, shouldn’t I?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

**”Michael?”**

”Huh?” Michael blinks away the sleep in his eyes, supporting himself on his elbows and the damp cafeteria table. He sees Lindsay as a blurry red shadow coming slowly into focus. She’s not smiling.

”That weekend made me want to punch God in the face,” she says.

“Good morning to you too.” Michael groans. He leans back and rubs his eyes. “Was it the storm?”

“Hurricane fuck-you-Lindsay.” Despite her cross look, her tone isn’t harsh, as if she can’t help but enjoy her own joke. “Had a nice trip to the shooting range that got cancelled.”

“That sucks.”

“Y’know, I think I needed that stress relief. The universe had other plans. I stayed inside and wrote half a paper.“ She grimaces. “Wasn’t like I had an excuse not to.”

Michael tries not to feel a bit guilty. “At least it looks like the weather’s getting better.”

“At least there’s that.”

As if on cue, a few drops of rain hit the windows. The sky is still clear enough that there wouldn’t be more than a light shower at most, but it is disheartening all the same. Lindsay just responds with a sigh as she puts her back to the wall. Her red hair and the flower garden on her shirt makes her stand out against the colourless backdrop, and she watches the students passing by outside. Michael follows her glance.

A flood of people treads the grass into the mud.

There are young men and women, some of whom still look like teens. They cover their heads with expensive textbooks, worn binders, baseball caps with the stickers still on. They hurry. They are always hurrying – at least the successful ones seem to be perpetually running late. The ones with the A’s and 100’s stashed inside their brand name backpacks, on the road to a PhD or a job worth a damn.

Michael’s lips are dry. He bites down.  

Maybe those runners will crash on the way to their goals - but at least they will know where they were going until they hit the ditch. At least they have a something to navigate by.

Better to be among them than the group of boys struggling with their beards and holding on to their snapbacks as they make their way across the field, not caring that the papers under their bulging arms get damp. Maybe they do not even care about making it to the right building; they might as well be in humanities as in computer science as long as they can say they are on a college campus.

“Do you ever think about what you want to do with your life?” Michael asks. He folds his hands, all cold, white and red.

“Heavy questions for this time of the day.”

“I just woke up. I hardly know what time of the day it is.”

Lindsay shrugs. ”…Well, I guess I have. Like everyone. I just don’t get hung up on it.” She strides around the table and sits down in front of Michael, leaning forward on her elbows. “That troubling you?”

”…Maybe I just don’t really know what I’m doing.” Michael pulls a face. He doesn’t know where he is going with this conversation. Why had he even started it? “Maybe I would be happy as… something else. Maybe I need to pull myself up by my bootstraps and fucking figure it all out. Maybe I should just take it as it comes.”

“Why the hurry to decide?”

“I think I have a lot more options now than I used to.”

Lindsay smiles. “That’s good, then.”

“Doesn’t feel like it. Now it’s all… pretty confusing. At least I guess I have…” Michael swallows. The last part, he hadn’t meant to say. _At least I have Geoff now. He’s my boyfriend, kind of. He’s, like, twelve years older than me._

“You have me,” Lindsay says. “And everyone else, okay? Let’s not get sappy.”

“Let’s not,” Michael agrees, meeting her eyes.

“Come with me to the shooting range some time,” she offers, “Let’s deal with this by shooting things together.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Lindsay leans back, self-satisfied, and Michael feels a little better - he has to give her that.

“Being out of work is bothering me less and less,” he says offhandedly. “Like, before it was all I could think about. People were going to care that I didn’t have money or didn’t look successful or some bull like that. I don’t… I don’t think I care about people as much, anymore.”

“That’s nihilistic,” Lindsay comments.

“Wow, a long word. Good job.”

“I know, I know.” Lindsay waves her hand in a dismissive motion. 

“Also, is it just me or are there _no_ jobs that anybody would actually want, ever, available? There’s no point in making fucking fries or stocking shitty stores.”

“Just get it all out, boy.” Lindsay clicks her tongue. “Your phone’s beeping.”

Michael looks down and sees the now-familiar little _G_ showing up.

“Sorry Linds, I gotta answer this.”

“Go ahead,” she says, “You look like you’re looking forward to it.”

Michael wonders if it’s _that_ obvious, taking a moment to study his reflection in the screen. His heart beats a little faster, but there’s nothing visible – okay, maybe he’s smiling kind of stupidly, too.

 _Calm down_.

He presses the button to answer the call.

“Hey,“ he begins, but then he stops. He stops breathing, too.

He hears a panicked, desperate “ _Michael-“_ swallowed up by a storm of static noise. It is Geoff's voice, unmistakable, but not like Michael has heard it before. There's fear in it, and it is followed by a gasp, deep and rough. There is background noise that Michael can't make out, and then - atmospheric interference, endless radio silence.

Silence.

Lindsay looks worried. “Anything the matter?” 

“Shitty connection,” Michael answers, aware of the frantic tone of the words, “That has to be it-“

He calls Geoff back, and the call is picked up.

More static.

Geoff’s voice does not come back, not does the breathing echo. But beneath the white noise grows a steady hum – a sound so deep that it sounds more like it comes from Michael’s bones or the ground beneath his feet than his phone. His palms grow sweaty and he feels his sixth sense _writhing_ , something trashing around inside his ribcage and making him sick with worry.

The horrible humming makes him want to vomit, but he can’t stop listening either, hoping for some kind of break in it so he can figure out what’s going on.

It stops when the call cuts out. Michael is left with a series of beeps that are not at all calming.  

Lindsay looks at him as if he’s gone mad.

“You look ill,” she says.

Michael doesn’t answer.

Something’s wrong with Geoff. He’s out somewhere where there’s no reception and it sounded like he was in _pain_ and Michael’s can’t help him –

Then the phone rings again.

_Mr. Gavin Free._

And all Gavin says, quicker and briefer than almost anything Michael has heard him say is -

“There’s a problem. It’s- It might be bad. I’ll explain when you come get me.”

Michael barely excuses himself as he grabs his bag and leaves Lindsay behind. She gives him permission with a brief nod; “You have to be there for your friends if there’s a problem,” she says.

 

Michael runs.


	12. Inkling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spooky shit AND smut in one chapter! I'm not really 100% satisfied with it but with so many words left to edit before this fic is done, I can't afford to dilly-dally around contemplating synonyms for penis for that long.

The atmosphere in the car is tense. Gavin breathes quickly, jaw clenched, as his aura makes Michael’s hair stand on end. The steering wheel is cold. Michael has to keep his eyes on the road, but he sneaks glances at his passenger. Gavin holds his phone in both hands. He looks almost apologetic when he plays the call hegot a few minutes before Michael’s, a few minutes before gasps and footsteps and terrible noise. 

At first, the only sound is buzzing and metallic clicking.

A few beeps.

Then they hear Geoff’s voice.  

“Gavin?” The voice is shaky, and the bad phone speakers do not help.

Gavin draws in a deep breath.

“Gavin, I think – You have to come find me, I’m gonna need help – need help getting home…” A pause. Wind and rustling leaves. A a few panting breaths, hurried movement. It sounds and feels like something out of a horror movie, and it makes Michael clench his hands around the steering wheel. The metal is getting warmer. “Michael or Ryan knows where I am – tell Michael it’s where we met – Woods – be careful, don’t go too far into the dark there…”

A long pause. Gavin looks at Michael, his eyes wide and worried. His voice stammers a syllable in the recording, but he never finishes the word.

“I just stood there,” present-Gavin explains, “There was a lot of silence. Then…”

Geoff’s next words are almost a whisper. “It’s coming now – the thing beneath-“

Then the call ends.

_Beep, beep, beep._

Gavin brings his knees up to his chin, arms wrapped around his legs and fingers rubbing the fabric of his pants. His voice sounds almost strained when he speaks – “You know where to go, Michael?”

“Yeah,” Michael answers, turning the wheel to bring them out of town. “Yeah, I remember.” He swallows. _“_ Actually, wait. _What on earth is happening?”_

“I don’t know! I don’t know either. Just… Step on it, I guess-”

“I _am_ ,” Michael replies. His heart beats so fast now. His mouth is dry.

There was actual fear in Geoff’s voice, and not the quiet fear that Michael has heard before. Not worry or good intentions hindered by a conscience. Something far more primal. Prey-animal fear.

Michael disregards the speed limit. If anyone else is driving on the gravel roads, they have better get out of the way. Gavin closes his eyes in quiet acceptance in the passenger’s seat, and Michael focuses only on bringing them around the bends without swerving off into the ditch. Sun shines into his eyes, blinding him whenever he drives west and south until it doesn’t.

The woods, though he was looking for them, sneak up on him. Suddenly he is  _here_ , where the pines block out the light and the sound of the wind surrounds the car like a cocoon. It waxes and wanes, but it is slowly growing louder and louder. The road here is usually hard to drive on, but now, when Michael’s hands shake despite his best efforts, it is even harder. 

Michael arrives in the clearing for the third time.

Everything appears a muted grey, and he cannot tell if it because of the light or his mood. Stepping foot on the soft ground fills him with the strangest sense of foreboding. Gavin feels the same, judging by the way he keeps his arms close to his body and his eyes downturned as they head in between the trees. Michael leads the way.

How he does it would be hard for him to explain. At first he follows footsteps pressed into the mud between the weeds, but as he goes on he picks up on something else, too. A scent that is not really there, a glow that was just a trick of the light, his intuition leading him. Then he starts to see that someone has worn a path. It winds and turns and twists, causing a sense of déjà vu as he travels it.

He has followed it once before.

Now the etchings in the bark appear, an ashen color, deep cuts in several tress. Above, there is a flutter of wings. Black birds take flight, flying from branch to branch overhead.

“Stupid birds,” Gavin mutters.

“Did they startle you?”

“No.” Michael turns his head and sees Gavin pressing his fingertips to a sigil. “ _God_ , that Geoff, he’s just – he’s useless sometimes. Making us trek all the way out here.”

Michael forgets to answer. He keeps his attention to finding the next mark and the next footprint. Branches break beneath his feet. He passes a tree with little pieces of bark torn off, exposing the almost skin-colored insides. He remembers punching it, hard. And he remembers the next part, the thick bushes where the sound of water could be heard fading in through the sound of the wind, and then the stone circle just beyond the hill –

The next step Michael takes sends him stumbling into a thin white mist. It covers the ground, resting on the air up to his shin. Of the stone circle, Michael can only see the gleaming, wet tops. All the plants have bowed beneath the mist where they muffle the sound of his and Gavin's footsteps.

Michael’s pace slows down, hesitant now. This is the circle of stones that he remembers, where he saw Geoff with outstretched arms long ago. He looks back over his shoulder. Gavin follows him gingerly, cupping his hands at his mouth and yelling – “Geoff? You there?”

The sound breaks the death-like silence, scaring yet more birds.

No answer comes.

“Why’d you yell?” Michael asks.

Gavin rolls his eyes. “Why shouldn’t I? If we’re going to _find_ him, that ought to help!”

Michael stares at Gavin. He's all tense. Thin lines of shadow cover his face and body, cast by the branches above. The echo of his outburst still hangs in the air around them, and it moves like a sentient being around between the trees. Michael realizes that he has no answer.

“I just feel like we should be quiet,” he says. “Dunno why.”

Instead of waiting for a response he turns around and continues closer to the center of the circle. The ferns are all heavy with moisture, but there is another thing in the air, too. Michael feels something profoundly _magical_ surrounding him, which is confusing, because it’s nothing like an aura he’s felt before. It is the place itself that gives off this feeling of cold, of _dread_.

Michael takes a few steps more. He can hear Gavin following him a little further back.  

A bit of white down floats on a non-existent breeze, leading Michael’s glance in between the stones. Granite. Painted, but the pale blue hues of the symbols are fading. Still no sign of Geoff. Just as he starts to wonder if he’s misunderstood the instructions, there’s another sensation of something cold and wet on his skin, just underneath the fabric of his jeans…

He looks down and sees nothing. He even touches the part of his leg where he could’ve sworn he had felt _something_ , but all he finds is damp fabric and trails of mist winding in between his fingers.

Michael takes in a deep breath. It’s like the air resists him, refusing to fill his lungs.

The hollow shriek of a bird echoes.  

Something crunches under Michael’s feet, and he looks down to see a thin line of white powder.

“Salt,” Gavin says. “Some kind of protection.” He hurries across it, perhaps affected by the same unease that Michael feels. Michael follows him, but it does not feel safer inside.

He passes another two stones to his right, and then stops to think. From the outside, he had approximated the stone circle to be no more than fourteen feet in diameter. It strikes him that they’ve been walking through it for a long time. The stones continue to sail through the mist anyway. But just as Michael ponders this, he hears Gavin breathlessly exclaiming “I think I see him!”

Michael would have taken the shape for a mound of earth if Gavin had not pointed it out. Though half-hidden in the shadows – when did it get so dark? – it is possible to discern the slope of a back. Geoff’s body is guarded by candles long burned down and pieces of amber glowing a warm gold on the forest floor. Brown leaves and broken branches lie on his back like a cloak, his face turned away.

Michael’s head becomes a mess of incoherent swearing and half-formed thoughts; a mantra of _please let him be okay, please let him be okay-_

Gavin rushes forward, falling quickly to his knees and rolling Geoff onto his back.

Michael starts to breathe again when he does not see blue marks or broken limbs, nothing – and then again... Though his face is peaceful as if sleeping, Geoff’s hands are curled into fists. He’s covered in black dirt, white mist and mud. No blood. At Gavin’s touch, nothing changes; for a moment Michael feels as if time stands still. It’s gone too quickly for him to register anything more than a few details, though – the horrible image of Geoff’s cramped muscles, the almost fetal position that Gavin cannot get him out of.

 _Geoff isn’t awake,_ Michael thinks. And then:  _Something else is_.

A howling rises through the woods, on the wind, in the little bones inside Michael’s ears. He feels a cold fear spread through his stomach as a stab wound. He looks up, and the sky is further away than before. The stones are bigger. There’s something beyond the salt circle. And while he stares Gavin tugs at his sleeve -

“Help me out, here,” he pleads.

But Michael is fairly sure he cannot turn around to do that. He is standing, facing the shadows, arms spread. He's not sure if he's inviting something or trying to scare it away. Maybe if he stays like this, he’ll hear the hum again. Maybe he’ll be able to make out the words…

“Come on. I-I think I’m starting to hear _things_ again. He’s heavy, Michael. We have to get him out- Michael!”

The name is the cord that pulls Michael back from the edge of the salt circle. The edge of the world, maybe, because beyond it lies grey, pale nightmare-mist.

He joins Gavin by Geoff’s limp body. _Focus on this_ , he tells himself, _this now, Geoff, Gavin._  

Up close, Geoff looks worse for the wear, tell-tale signs of exhaustion dark underneath his eyes. Black dirt underneath his nails, as if he has been digging in the ground around him. He looks so _dead_ , and it makes Michael feel like he’s dying, too, and suddenly everything else matters a lot less.

“Hey,” Michael says, a little bit of pitch-black panic sneaking into his voice, “ _Hey._ Wake the fuck up. Come on, Geoff…“ He places a hand on Geoff’s cheek, and everything feels cold and clammy around them. He lowers his voice to a whisper without really remembering why. “Are you going to wake up if I _say I love you_? Hey…”

Gavin, just a few inches away, bites his lip. His hands turn frantic as they roam across the planes of Geoff’s chest, feeling for heartbeat and pulse, relieved only when he finally presses two fingers to Geoff’s neck and reminds Michael of his presence.

There’s a quiet groan – it could have come from the trees bending to the wind around them, blending into the soundscape, but Michael finds its source and places his hand on Geoff’s cheek. The older man’s eyes open for a brief moment, something clouded and distant about them.  He breathes in sharply, heaving in air, then exhales so slowly that Michael can see his chest almost collapsing in on itself beneath the too-thin, dirty shirt. A hand, almost translucent, rises to lay on Michael’s, as he caresses it with his thumb. “Michael,” he whispers.

“Yes, I’m here, asshole.”

“Good.” Geoff exhales again. Michael is almost surprised when his breath does not turn to steam and join the mist around them.

Gavin says, “We’re getting you home.” The raw edge in his voice makes Michael’s heart beat a little faster. Gavin was never supposed to sound like this. He’s supposed to be carefree. Not… Not this worried about anything.

Geoff looks at both of them like he has more to say, but his eyes close and his head falls back down. He fades away into the same state of almost-unconsciousness that they found him in.

“Looks like we’re going to have to carry him,” Michael says.

Gavin nods.

They manage to divide his weight more or less evenly, both of them with one of his arms around their shoulders. In the end, they do not carry as much as _drag_ him out, but it is not that hard as long as it is downhill. Michael can only see his feet and the dead leaves he treads on. That might be good, because looking at the shadows felt  _wierd_. Was there movement out in the half-dark between the bushes? Was there something in the mist...?

They leave the circle and the clearing.  

There was nothing in the mist. There shouldn't - couldn't - have been any white mist at all. Michael shakes his head. He didn’t see any on the way there, so why would something like that have appeared all of a sudden?

It makes no sense.

He looks at Gavin, ignoring Geoff – _not dead, just not awake_ _right now_ – in between them.

“This make no sense,” he says.

Gavin nods sagely. “Let’s get him home,” he says.

Michael has made the trip running, then dragging Geoff, then now, _really_ dragging Geoff. He’s borderline used to every trip to this neck of the woods ending in worry.

It takes only a few minutes before they’re out of the woods again. They find the sun, finally, and its reflections in Michael’s car. A weight disappears from Michael’s shoulders.

The lights meet them with warmth and wind that blows away the last lingering scent of rot. Michael smells Geoff instead, herbs and sweat.

“Let’s get back,” Gavin says.

“Sure,” Michael says. “I don’t know about you, but I’ve got questions.”

“Have we ever got anything else?”

* * *

Geoff doesn’t wake up even though Michael more or less purposefully drives too fast over every bump in the road. It looks like a peaceful sleep, at least. Michael keeps looking in the rearview mirror to catch a glimpse. 

Gavin doesn’t say much. He sits in the back with Geoff, protecting his head from knocking against junk or the hard metal of the door. He had murmured something about Geoff maybe having a concussion. Michael can’t tell.

All he can do is drive.

“By the way…” Gavin says, skittish as he wrings his hands, “I heard you say something. Back there.”

“What?” Michael asks.

“Huh?”

“I didn’t hear what you said.”

“Oh.” Gavin shrugs.  “Nothing, then. Never mind.”

Soon the city cradles them, buildings and street lights promising a world of help and guidance, doctors and warm beds, but Michael feels alienated from it. He feels that the problem has nothing to do with modern science. Whatever is wrong is wrong in a way that makes him feel they should be at Geoff’s home instead, so that’s where they go.

The house looks utterly dead when they arrive. The blinds are drawn. When Michael stops the car, Geoff stirs a little in the back seat. Gavin shushes him, guides him all the way out of the passenger door and to the doorstep. It is up to Michael to reach into Geoff’s pocket for the key and unlock the door. All the lights are off inside, and it is more than a little tricky to get Geoff into his bed. Michael has to cling to him to get them anywhere, but the intimacy hardly feels intimate at all when there’s sufficient adrenaline in play. 

Geoff has lost the privilege of dignity, covered in an ugly cat-patterned blanket that Gavin found used as a chair cushion. They both agreed that it was a fitting punishment for the whole experience. The chair now serves as Michael’s seat next to the bed, while Gavin sits on the side of the mattress, looking strangely thoughtful as he keeps watch over the slow rise and fall of Geoff's chest.

“Anything like this happen before?” Michael asks.

Gavin shakes his head slowly. “I don’t think that – wait – no. No, I don’t think so.” His hand rests on the head of a maine coon and, underneath the blanket, Geoff’s hip. He seems to need that physical sensation. His fingers trace little circles, describing sigils that Michael vaguely remembers.

“Are you…?” Michael begins, his voice trailing off.

“Just little things. Just a little safety.”

“Don’t exhaust yourself.”

Gavin snorts. ”I know my limits.” The light makes him look all pale anyway. White and hard, deep furrows by his brows. “…I’m really worried.”

He says it like a fact he can barely fathom himself.

“Of course,” Michael says. “I mean, what the hell was-“

Gavin turns his head, his eyes snapping from Geoff to Michael – “More than that. I felt- like maybe he… “ Gavin’s hand travels up, then away into the air, hovering in front of his face as if the lines hold some sort of deeper meaning. “Felt like we’ve heard the same thing… And like I – Like we – never mind.”

”Never mind?”

”Yeah, sorry, I’m just a little out of it. Right.” Gavin lets his hand fall. 

"Do you want to go get you a cup of tea or something or...?"

"That'd be nice."

 

They are slow as they work together, the situation inspiring a certain solemn mood. It helps a lot that they are back in the realm of electricity, though, the kettle boiling and the TV on for the sake of background noise. Gavin’s hands are still a bit shaky as he makes himself tea, and he keeps looking down the hallway. Michael joins him in the kitchen, and on an impulse, he lays a hand on Gavin’s shoulder.

“Still freaked out?” he asks, and Gavin shakes his head.

“Weird things are bound to happen around Geoff. It’s just never been this-“

“What kind of weird things?”

Gavin turns to look at Michael, leaning into the touch as if he needs the anchor. “Just… all his own projects, you know? Things he had to do alone and – When I met him, for instance, he was fond of these creepy books… I think he’s lending them to Ryan, now.”

“He doesn’t talk about it to me, either,” Michael says. He lets his hand fall again. Keeping it there, feeling Gavin's muscles move as he fiddles with the teabags, would feel... wierd. 

Gavin says, “I’m starting to think he should.”

“You think he will?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “Geoff’s a bloody bastard some times. But if he got got by something - failed spell or whatever the hell else it could've been - he’s not gonna be able to keep us safe from it either.” In his anger, his accent comes out more clearly, and despite it all Michael finds it almost endearing.

“I want to do something, then,” Michael says, “Let’s read Ryan’s books anyway. Let’s try to figure out what he was doing. Let’s – I don’t know, I’ll try to make him talk.”

“You’re not scared?”

“No.” At the moment, there is no room for fear in Michael’s body. There is only purpose and the magnificent feeling of making a choice that matters; if there is anything that would hurt Geoff, he will find it and hurt it back. “How about you?”

“I’m doing whatever you’re doing. I’ll go with,” Gavin says. Michael has to take a quick breath – Gavin’s reply came so easy, without any hesitation. 

“But you’re sure you’re alright?”

“Are you?”

“Mhm. Fuck it, I’m ok.” And Michael isn’t lying - as long as Geoff and Gavin are both safe, everything that transpires might as well be just a bad dream.

“I’m going to be OK too, then.”

Michael decides to give both of them room to breathe, excusing himself to check the time and text a friend. He does none of those things, continuing to exist in a timeless state: there are no clocks, no hour hands to follow. He hears Gavin walk back down the hall to Geoff's room. That's all.  
The hum and the haunting can’t find him here. The scents of this house and the spells laid into the firmament protects him from all that. But the sight of Geoff crumbled on the forest floor remains, and though Michael never really feared _losing_ him – there is still an aura of immortality around their fledgling relationship – he has been shaken up bad enough that his body is only now returning to its calm state.

Watching the clouds gather far above, he thinks that he never wants to see Geoff hurt again. Or Gavin, on his knees, scared in a way that Michael hadn’t been. Something else was at stake for him.

_Everything is okay. Everyone is safe. Geoff has a lot of explaining to do once he wakes up._

_Which he will._

The floorboards creak under Michael’s weight, but the last steps down to the bedroom are soundless. He pauses, looking in.

Gavin sits with the mug in one hand and an unreadable, allmost _sad_ expression. His touches Geoff's shoulder very lightly. 

Michael clears his throat and pretends he didn’t just watch his friend having a moment, and Gavin pretends he didn’t just have a moment, getting up so they stand side by side, and then it gets awkward anyway.

“Do you want to, um, sit here alone a bit?” Gavin asks, avoiding eye contact. “Like, if you don’t want to-“

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you don’t have to, um, restrain yourself. If you wanted to… I don’t know. Just do what you need to.”

Michael furrows his brows. “What?”

“I mean…” Gavin rests his hand at the back of his neck. “If you want to hold your boyfriend's hand, you should. If that's the right word for what he is to you. I... I know about you and him.”

It’s not really a surprise to Michael. If anyone would know, he had the feeling it would be Gavin. The _how_ remains, though. Gavin goes on.

“I guessed it. From how you acted around each other. I know Geoff.” Is there any attempt at being assertive? At reminding Michael that he’s still an outsider compared to how long Gavin and Geoff have known each other? _No_ , Michael decides, Gavin’s tone is too soft and his look too gentle as he finally dares to look at Michael’s face, gauging his reaction. “I like to think I know you, too. I don’t mind it, but I’d like it better, actually, if you didn’t think I was _stupid_ enough to not notice.”

“We – It wasn’t like that.”

“I understand, though. Just… Yeah. Take good care of him, okay? Not just now, but... In the future.” 

Gavin’s hand is feather-light on Michael’s shoulder, gone a moment later. 

“Okay,” Michael says. It feels like he's sworn an oath. 

Gavin's phone beeps loudly, and the mood changes on a dime. He retrieves it from his pocket, muttering to himself about the  _bloody stupid alarm_. 

"Do you have something you need to do?" Michael asks. 

“It's just awful, but I do. I don't think I want to leave - or  _should_. I mean, someone should stay here in case he… vomits or something.” Gavin pulls a face. “You can choke to death that way.”

“You look kind of pale all of a sudden.”

“It’s nothing.”

“…I can stay,” Michael offers. “You know, to keep an eye out.”

 “Good. If it ends up lasting a while-”

“-I’ll call you and get replaced?”

“Something like that.”

For a moment, they are eye to eye and Michael feels safe. Okay, Geoff is _not alright_ and _something is very wrong_ , but he and Gavin, together, can handle it.

 “Good. And if he wakes up while you’re gone, I’m going to give him hell and text you about it, right?”

“Thanks.” Gavin smiles. “Know you will.”

* * *

Night inches closer while Geoff remains asleep. Michael waits as patiently as he can for any change in Geoff’s condition, but eventually he accepts that it may be some time until he can get a change to bug him for answers.

Alone, Michael wanders through the rooms for a while, moving to get the restlessness out of his body.

All the lights are off. No reason to change that. It allows him to see, in the living room, a little blinking dot of light from stand-by console. Michael sinks down into the sofa and finds an abandoned controller laying on the cushions where he can imagine Geoff leaving it just before he went out. With the TV on mute, Michael makes himself just a little more at home. He decides he won’t mention it later. There is something calming about wandering through Geoff’s Minecraft world, luring cats into his house and planting flowers along the unfinished roads. He does his best to leave more than he takes.

Later, he moves as a lazy shadow to the kitchen where he still remembers the placements of the cups and plates. He sates his hunger sitting on the counter. The floor creaks, but Michael begins to learn the pattern of the creaking, which boards provoke the sounds and which stay quiet.

Outside, the winter dark comes down.

He cleans the plate, washes the cup, places them back in the cabinet.

The TV is still on. Flashing colors spill all over the walls of the living room. Somewhere else, there is a muted war on.

Michael runs his fingers along a shelf where the books are not heavy tomes, but cheap paperbacks. Some of them look unread while others are bent and broken in every way. It would be a great chance to make his English teacher proud, but he doesn't bring a book back to Geoff's bedside. He curls up at the foot end of the bed with his phone instead, playing dumb mobile games. He pulls his knees to his chin and focuses on not vocalizing his fustration when there's a difficult level.

Though the situation still isn’t right, it feels safer when it is quiet and warm. His feet is just beneath Geoff’s blanket. It would have felt awfully intimate if Geoff was awake, but like this, it seems appropriate. When Geoff stirs, Michael looks up from the screen, then back again. The world grows smaller, consisting only of this room. It is the only place where the light is on.

Michael usually doesn’t have the patience to keep trying when he fails the same levels again and again, but something about the sound of the wind outside and Geoff’s slow breathing calms him. Maybe it is because there is nowhere else he wants to be but here, with the man he unfortunately fell in love with.

He almost dozes off.

Then, Geoff _moves_. Dazed, he looks around, blinking owlishly in the light. He opens his mouth and speaks as if making slow conversation, but the words are not like any language Michael has ever heard.

“ _Ii Hasturyar nathrod ehye ngfhtagn h'ehye gebnyth hrii…“_ Geoffs eyes are blank slates, like a statue’s, staring unblinking at the opposite wall like Michael wasn’t there. The guttural noises come from deep in his throat, all raspy and dry. “ _Ehye shugg nggnaiih r'luh_ \- ” Suddenly he jolts again, and this time his eyes find Michael’s when he looks up again. He shivers as he exhales. He grabs the blanket hard enough that gorge-deep creases form around him, pointing to him. “Michael?”

“Yeah,” Michael says, swallowing as he puts the phone away. “I’m here.”

The words Geoff just said are still a horrible memory. It is as if their echo persists, constantly bouncing back from every wall. Michael doesn’t understand them, but images prod at him – dark places, deep roots, bowing one’s head to look down. When he looks at Geoff, he understands a sliver of what has been going through the other’s head for the last few hours, and he understands that what he needs to do is convince Geoff that this is not another dream.

He comes closer and reaches out to touch him. Geoff sighs. “Michael,” he repeats. “Got it. You’re here. We’re both here.” His eyes dart around the room. “You got me home.”

“Me and Gavin. We managed.”

Geoff runs his fingers through Michael’s hair, and Michael leans into the touch. “God, I am so fucking glad to see you.” He closes his eyes. “You’re real.”

Michael could probably ask about what happened now. There are a hundred questions in his head, but even so, it seems more important to just _kiss_ Geoff right now. Geoff’s hands are clinging on to the fabric of Michael’s t-shirt and the heat of his skin, pulling him in. His lips are dry and warm, fever-like. Neither of them want the kiss to end.

“I’m going to give you answers,” Geoff says. "I'm going to explain what that all was."

 “Promise?”

“Mhm. Just – right now, I don’t want to think about it.” He looks Michael in the eye, something like weakness in his expression.

 “It wasn’t easy for me either, okay?” Michael wants Geoff as close as possible, especially now that he remembers – “Seeing you body just laying there – it was so fucking weird, all that _noise_ -“

“I know,” Geoff says, and Michael rests his head on his boyfriend’s chest. Geoff’s breathing evens out. He strokes Michael’s hair again, repeating himself, “I know.”

A gust of wind outside makes something creak in the roof. The windows rattle a little.

“Do you need anything?” Michael asks, “Water?”

“My throat feels like it’s _burning_. That’s a yes.”

Michael leaves, feeling Geoff’s hand trail from his body as he gets up. When he returns with a glass of water, Geoff is looking decidedly more content. Still tired, but peaceful.

“If you fell asleep now, would you just sleep?” Michael asks.

“I don’t know. Why?”

“If you’re gonna be borderline unconscious again, I’d better not leave.”

Geoff smiles. “Then I’m definitely in a miserable condition. Sick as dicks.” He makes eye contact, and he’s definitely lucid, not in danger. “Stay around.”

“Stay here?” Michael asks, gesturing to the bed.

"If you want. And if I remember it right, you do."

 

Michael stays in the room, sitting on the bed with one leg drawn up. Half the time he can’t tell if Geoff sleeps or not, but if it _is_ sleep, it’s the good kind. He never feels worried. Another time, watching Geoff and sitting in his bed might have been enough, but there is still adrenaline in Michael’s body. Enough that he wants to be touching him all the time.

 

When Geoff opens his eyes again, he no longer seems on the verge of falling back asleep. Slowly, he gets into a sitting position, eyes level with Michael’s. When they make eye contact as a result, they both look away and back again. It’s silly, really. Michael moves a few inches closer, making the bed creak a little.

 “Are we alone?” Geoff asks.

“Gavin left a while ago. He’ll be back tomorrow, though," Michael says. 

“...Come closer?”

Michael does. And then he decides to follow his gut feeling.

 _Fuck waiting around, fuck just staring._ He moves forward to straddle Geoff, realizing how long he has wanted to be this close, feeling all Geoff’s heat and taking all his breath away.  Geoff hums in response, a hand moving down to rest on Michael’s lower back. Michael can smell his scent, leaning against his body, resting his head against his shoulder.

They sit like this for a while. Michael realizes that he doesn’t know what time it is. He doesn’t know what he’ll do after this. All that matters is the way they look at each other, always noticing more details. Little things, like the subtle colors hiding on the edge of irises or just one shaky line in a tattoo.

“…I’m sorry if I need a shower," Geoff mumbles. "There’s probably mud all over me.”

Michael closes his eyes. The world becomes soft and blurry light on the other side of his eyelids. He feels Geoff’s chest expand beneath him. “Eh. That’s after.” He opens his eyes again. Geoff has this smile that isn’t as much on his mouth as in his eyes. “Right now I just want you here with me. We could…”

Geoff raises an eyebrow. A hand draws a line down Michael’s side. “What?”

“We could celebrate that even though _something_ clearly is fucked up, we’re both alive and well?” Michael offers. “...Am I the only one picking up on some kind of sexual tension here?”

“…You’re kind of on my lap right now. I’ve noticed. But you, uh, need to be more precise about what you have in mind,” Geoff says.

“I don’t know.” Michael says, “Kind of just want get you naked and see where that takes us.”

“I can work with that,” Geoff replies. He kisses Michael again, and for a second they almost lose themselves completely – Michael certainly forgets the conversation when he’s got Geoff’s bottom lip between his teeth - then Geoff breaks it off. “You sure don’t want to wait?”

“Fuck yes.” Michael says emphatically, and to illustrate that he means what he says, he grinds his hips forward. The friction between them can be felt despite their clothes; his hands start to roam to Geoff’s torso. He doesn’t say _for a moment I thought you were lost to me_. Or _I want to forget that your body could be anything but living._ Still, it’s there in his actions.

Geoff tilts his head - as if he’s admiring Michael and the swift work he is making of any inhibitions Geoff might have had; it all goes away when Michael takes off his own t-shirt and messes up his hair in the process. By now, Michael has guessed that he has Geoff wrapped around his finger as long as he can use his looks to his advantage.

“Come on, then,” Geoff says.

The next kiss is deeper, slower. Patient.

Geoff’s touch is different now that his hands are travelling along Michael’s bare skin. They are as warm and wide as Michael had thought they would be, fingers tracing his sides all the way down to his waist and the barrier of his belt.

“You’re a lot more… toned that I thought you’d be,” Geoff says, and the admiration in his voice only spurs Michael on.

“Thanks. If we’re measuring up our expectations, show me the rest of your tattoos.”

“Go ahead.”

Michael sneaks his hands under the hem of Geoff’s shirt and finds no resistance when he pulls it off. Inch by inch, the ink appears – spirals, patterns, creatures. Banners and blood drops and knives. In between these are other runes and symbols that Michael recognizes as magical. He throws the shirt aside, not caring for where it lands, and turns his attention to the painted skin and the plain of Geoff’s chest. While fingers run through his hair, he kisses Geoff’s jaw, moving along his throat to his collarbones. He tastes and bites down a little, just enough that he’ll leave little red marks. Geoff doesn’t protest, and Michael takes that as permission.

He follows the feathers of a dove in flight with his lips, and again he moves his hips forward – just enough that Geoff lets out an unguarded little moan. Michael feels hands dip towards his hips again, wordlessly asking him to repeat the action. Between them, there is growing heat and _need_ , but even so Geoff hesitates enough that Michael finally leans back and undoes his belt himself.

He undoes Geoff’s soon after, about to reach in between them when Geoff asks, “Let me move real quick, ok?” He adjusts himself, moving a little further so his back is against the wall and Michael is more stable on his lap.

Michael takes the chance to divert his attention back to Geoff’s neck. He teases with brief kisses, lighter touches, and he suppresses a smile when he hears faint protest. “I’m hard, Michael. Come on, _touch me-“_

He pulls Geoff’s rough jeans down past his hips, and there’s a bit of awkward moving around before they’re completely off. Now he can touch Geoff’s cock through the cotton of his boxers, a damp spot already forming, and _this_ , he knows how to do. Can’t be much different from jerking himself of, after all. Michael likes this closeness where the whole world consists of body heat and the scent of sweat. There’s no empty space between them, just a few centimeters, just enough for Michael to free Geoff’s erection from his underwear and jerk him off.

Michael can’t help but admire the rise and fall of the other man’s chest, the way his breath becomes heavier. Their lips meet and this time the kiss is all wet, spit and clumsy movements as Michael moves faster and faster. He can feel himself grow more excited, too, and wants out of his clothes. Wants to press his skin against Geoff’s.

“I’m just gonna get these off,” Michael says, ignoring the low whine that escapes Geoff when he shifts his attention to removing his own pants.

Despite the _need_ building everywhere in him, Michael takes a moment to lean back and take in the scene.

They are both a little dishevelled. There are warm hands on his lower back, moving to his hips. The ugly cat blanket has been shoved aside. Michael's feet are almost tangled up in it anyway. 

Geoff sighs, looking down. There’s something almost self-satisfied in that look.

Michael can’t help but enjoy the measure of control he has in this moment: He sets the pace. His hand grows slick with pre-cum, tracing Geoff’s length with light touches before he strokes it properly, base to tip, biting his lip as he sees the results.  

“Fuck, _Michael_ -“

A smile graces Michael’s lips, and he kisses Geoff’s jaw, tasting sweat, thinking of salt circles. He inhales sharply as he rocks forward. There’s something vaguely animalistic about it, he thinks. Something desperate underneath it all, in every gentle motion. Half of the act is discovery and half is a desire to forget: some part of both of them is still in the woods.

He looks up, into Geoff’s eyes – half-lidded, but not satisfied yet, still something hungry that matches the movements of his hips, of the hand that moves the edge of Michael's boxers. Michael looks down when Geoff starts to stroke him, the rythm even and slow. Black ink contrasts with the whiteness of his thighs and the bedsheets beneath.

“Keep going,” Michael hears himself say. He feels pleasure build from Geoff's touches – except it’s more than just that. It is also the situation itself, the fact that he’s imagined this before, and now he is hearing Geoff moan his _name_.  His hand moves faster on Geoff’s cock, now. He twists his hand slightly, teases the head of it, does his best to provoke more and more reactions from the older man.

“'Might come already if you keep that up,” Geoff says. His nails dig in just below Michael’s shoulder blade while his other hand slows down. Michael doesn’t pause to feel neglected; it’s enough for him to hear Geoff fail to swallow down a low “ _Fuck.”_

“Hey, don't hold back because of me,” Michael murmurs, "I want to see that." And then it doesn’t take much more.

He gives a few long strokes and Geoff’s eyes fall shut. He exhales deeply, hips still jerking up to meet Michael’s hand, and then there’s come dripping onto Michael’s fingers and his own taut stomach.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he repeats, “Michael, that was good – that was…”

Michael tilts his head and stops him with an open-mouthed kiss. Geoff leans into it, breath passing over Michael’s cheek, and the look in his eyes when they part is like he only now dares to believe that all of this is real and not just a fever dream. He lies still as Michael’s tongue traces his teeth.

Even though Michael is still aware of his own need and his heightened pulse, how hard he is, he starts to think that he might not even need more than this.  Just lying together, warm and certain that they both want each other.

Then Geoff speaks again in that low, almost hoarse voice that Michael loves.

“If you get on your back, I’ll make it up to you.”

And okay, no way Michael doesn’t want more.

Geoff pauses a moment, looking around before finding a box of tissues halfway underneath the bed. Michael takes one when it is offered - "Had a bad cold?" he asks.

Geoff does not dignify the statement with a reponse. Instead, he reaches for his pillow, asking, "Do you want this? For your head?"

"Sure." But it's not like Michael really  _cares_ about that. All that matters is that Geoff could be closer, his pulse is quick and his dick is hard despite the intermission. 

As soon as Michael is on his back, Geoff makes good in his promice. He's tracing Michael’s body with lips and hands, placing teasing kisses down his chest. It’s all a bit clumsy – he doesn’t dare to use his teeth at all – but it’s more than enough as he makes his way past Michael’s stomach. Then Michael feels Geoff’s mouth on his skin just below his navel, then further down, then – slowly – on the head of his cock.

Michael can’t help but moan encouragingly at the sensation of Geoff blowing him. It’s wet, slippery with spit and his own fluids, hot, so different from his own hand. And _this_ , Geoff can do – Michael wonders, when his thoughts aren’t solely focused on the pleasure of it, where Geoff got this experience. His tongue circles the tip, all his attention focused there before he moves down, dragging his tongue along the length.

Michael can’t help but arch his back a little. His hips jerk up, partly without his control.

“Is it all right?” Geoff asks. Michael almost resents him for it – he just wants that mouth back between his legs – but nods in response.

Geoff takes that as encouragement to lower his head and take Michael’s cock in his mouth again. When he moves his head, bobbing slowly up and down, Michael’s right hand finds its way into Geoff’s hair. It's not to control anything, he just needs to hold onto _something_. He grips the bedsheets with the left, creating deep creases.

“You look beautiful,” Geoff comments, breaking off the rhythm of his movements again.

“You too.” Michael says, “Please don’t stop.” His own voice sounds distant to him. He can hear his pulse in his ears. And then there’s the word, _please_ , that just escaped him, a little exciting in this context – not that he dwells on the thought.

Geoff places a hand on Michael’s hip, thumb brushing against his stomach. Michael notices that little touch even despite the fact that Geoff is moving slowly, almost humming as he takes Michael deep. Michael’s heart beats faster, faster. His grip on Geoff's hair tightens, not that he meant to tug at it. When Geoff pulls back for a moment, and Michael fails to suppress a little annoyed groan; the tight knot in his stomach is a witness to the fact that he was almost on the edge. “Careful with the hair,” Geoff says, “That hurts.” 

Michael lets his hand fall, and it rests on his thigh where it covers Geoff's.

“I’m almost…” Michael says, but his voice trails off and it doesn’t matter. Geoff understands, does exactly what he needs to – Michael once again feels lost in the sensation of Geoff’s lips and tongue working their magic along his length. The warm, tingling feeling ripples up his spine.

And despite all the sensations here is still present, looking at Geoff, feeling the heat build at a steady pace.

He lays his head back as Geoff’s hand strokes along his shaft, the head of his cock just inside Geoff’s mouth. His breath comes more and more ragged. He can feel muscles tightening, hips twitching upwards, wanting just a little more so he’ll come over the edge –

“Coming,” he gasps, “ _Fuck_ , don’t stop, Geoff-“

Michael lays his head back as a wave spreads through him, downwards and up. He closes his eyes. Holds his breath for a second before he lets go, involuntarily, and he can feel Geoff moving back, hands dragging over the inside of thighs and the bed giving beneath them.

When he opens his eyes again Geoff is wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, reaching for the tissues in the bed-side table with the other. When he finds one, he removes the last pale fluid from the corner of his mouth, spits, crumbles it up, and Michael watches him.

The air was just full of slick noises and little moans, but now it's quiet. 

Adrenaline and tension ebbs away. All that's left is facing the decisions they've made.  _No_ , Michael decides,  _this wasn't too early._

He hopes Geoff comes to the same conclusion. 

Michael grabs him by the hand and pulls him down, back to bed. As two bodies, they lay side by side surrounded by the evidence and the elegant gray shadows, gold light, the scent of sweat and sex.  

"So?" Michael asks. "Do you regret it?"

"Not at all."

Michael cranes his neck to get a kiss, and Geoff obliges. He plays the big spoon, and despite everything, the world is just _good_ for a while. There is nothing but them, the afterglow and the unsaid _I love you._

The moment feels endless. 


	13. Eldritch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has a) many points of view, b) the most purple-prose-y line I've written yet (I think) and c) a part that was really really fun to write. Also a brief mention of animal cruelty (no thorough description of anything though).  
> And remember how one of the tags said "eventual cosmic horror"? Well...

When Gavin arrives in a mess of noise and light and the fresh air spilling in through the wide-open front door, Geoff is alone. This is worrying at first. He scours the sight of Geoff at his kitchen table reading the news for any sign of sickness, but he seems calm and comfortable in his skin. Gavin keeps standing in the doorway until he's sure that Michael isn't anywhere in the house. There's no sound of him, no jacket in the entryway, just Geoff mumbling a “Good morning” and raising an eyebrow. "Are you coming in, Gavin?"

"Mhm," Gavin responds, closing the door behind him.

Geoff is perusing the paper as if looking for something in particular. Whatever it is, he is not finding it. His mouth becomes a thin line of annoyance. His fingers, tracing the lines of text, stop and reach for his coffee instead. He drinks slowly. 

Gavin takes a seat on a chair turned the wrong way around. "So," he says. "You've been getting sick kind of often lately. Are you alright now?"

"I'm not in pain or anything, if that's what you're asking. I'm not _sick._ Got a good night's sleep." 

_Sure you did, with Michael around._

Gavin forces the thought down. He gestures vaguely to his head - "And up here?"

"Up there it's..." Geoff reaches up to rub his temples, still looking down at today's headlines. "My mind's all full of words I don't understand. You heard me yesterday, right? And I keep thinking about it - what the hell is a _Hastur_?"

"I don't know," Gavin says, "but it doesn't sound nice." In truth, it makes his mouth go sandpaper-dry, but Geoff doesn't need to know that. "I was planning on playing nurse for you."

"The kind in high stockings?” Geoff’s smile lasts a second, and his hand falls back on the table. “Or, you know, whatever."

"I meant giving you hot towels and better soup than Michael's and stuff." Gavin puffs himself up, playfully offended.

"You can help me with something else instead."

"What?"

Geoff stands up, all lazy, languid movements, pushing his chair in so that it screeches against the floor. He folds up the newspaper and takes it with him; Gavin catches a glimpse of the front page. Nothing really frightening, just the unsteady weather.

Geoff clears his throat. "I promised I was going to give an explanation for yesterday, and I will. But I don't know enough yet - "

"Do we ever?"

"I'm going to figure out what to say. Look through some books, gather my thoughts. You could help me find the books I need in the mess in the garage. And the whole coven is coming together later, so... Maybe we should do the dishes, too."

It does not feel like Gavin's help is really _needed_. Like these plans were made without him in them, and now Geoff is just trying to fit him in, but Gavin will take it.

"I'll help you," he says.

And if he knows Geoff right, some of the books he might want to peruse should not be looked at alone.

* * *

 **Geoff** hardly notices the next two hours passing.

There’s a flutter of paper, maps and scrolls unravelling as they fall from his arms to the floor.

Soft swearing.

A final, hard, satisfying _thump_ as he places a stack of books on the table. Gavin is being a good kid – and again, Geoff must admonish himself, not a _kid_ but an adult, a good _friend_ – picking up the books from the floor. He knows that Gavin cannot make sense of the things he is helping to prepare.

The books are bound in black and red and animal leather. They reek of attics and garlic, thyme, bad dreams. The writing is gothic letters or handwritten scrawls, worse and worse as the pages go on; the only drawings are made in the margins, in childish scrawls or deliberate sketches. Geoff has heard about the authors - but there is so much hearsay.

He has told Gavin a few of the more colorful tales during the day.

It’s not like they want to talk about the elephant in the room before the others arrive.

But Geoff has talked about a man from New Hampshire who walked into the mountains and didn’t come back; who swore that the bears were talking to him – quite insane by the time he had written his book about people named devil-worshippers in their time. 

And a woman in Maine who studied visions among the fishermen until she, too, began to have dreams of seaweed and waxing tides, all dutifully described in her journal and published post-mortem. She was sure there were patterns etched into the salt cliffs. 

Other authors are still alive, and Geoff has visited them. He has visited many more of the dead and missing in their empty homes and seen not their friends and family, but the people drawn to them by magic and fate and circumstance. These little covens with their little tragedies in all sorts of towns up the coastline. Old and young, men and women, the confused and frightened who never heard of others with their abilities and the experienced who have worked for decades - all speaking softly about things that would make Geoff's travelling partner - Heyman or Hullum or someone else, too often changing – jot down a note or two. Those are on the table as well. Pages torn from day planners, dollar-store notebooks and dream-journals from the last year or so.

But most of the stories have no end. The books are written, sent through the mail or passed along through a network of witches, calloused hand to hand - then the authors are lost for posterity.

Eventually Gavin’s attention shifts from the stories. Geoff starts to feel that he is being observed as he tidies up the map. He has kept it in a drawer for – two years now? More? – and the folds have become fault lines that he smooths out with the palm of his hand.

The rhythmic tap of Gavin’s foot stops, and he puts aside the book he had been leafing lazily through. (Like he thought he could make Geoff believe he had been interested in records from their town’s city council back in the 1800’s).

Gavin clears his throat. “So. You and Michael, eh?”

Geoff looks at Gavin’s fake carelessness and then back to his own hands and the coastline beneath them. “Yeah,” he answers. And he can’t help but smile, just saying it. That's worth relishing, despite what must come after. “I, uh... Wasn’t ever planning on keeping it from you, I swear.”

“You did though." Gavin's chair squeaks as he shifts. "That one afternoon.”

Gavin can be petty sometimes, but Geoff knows that he deserves it now. “It was _very_ soon. You know I’d come clean.”

“…I know.” Gavin rests his chin in his left hand as his right plays absentmindedly with a thumbtack. He looks up, brows knitted together – “Is it weird when he’s like, decades younger than you?”

“We talked about it.”

“But is it _weird_?”

There’s something strangely endearing about the bluntness of it all. Gavin leans forward until he’s basically laying on the table, wrinkling the map again. “Well…” Geoff begins, “Sort of? Sometimes it makes me feel old. Michael just doesn't give a shit about it, and when I'm with him, I guess it doesn't matter so much to me, either.”

“You really love him,” Gavin says. "I can hear it in your voice." His eyes, green and dulled by lack of light or drifting emotion, find Geoff’s. And he stares. And then he lowers his gaze, like the table is interesting.   

“At least I know that much.”

Gavin swallows, hesitating for a moment before opening his mouth again. A little forced smile accompanies the words. “When the others show up, just kiss him on the mouth and get it out there. Get it _over with._ ”

“Maybe I will,” Geoff replies, shrugging casually.

Gavin looks away, and Geoff gets the distinct impression that he rather regrets saying what he said. He takes a deep breath, chest expanding, shoulders rising, reminding Geoff of a bird puffing up in front of a predator or a mate. Either of the two. “Is anything going to change?”

Geoff sinks down on a chair, wanting to be eye-level now that Gavin’s voice has grown a little calmer, a little more serious than usual. “Change how?”

“I mean, I can still come around and stuff, right? Your guest room is still gonna be… Well, it wasn’t really mine, but-“

“I think it’s yours.”

“What?" Gavin asks, his accent heavy on the vowel - "Why?” 

“Well, you’re the only one who ever uses it. Can’t blame me for starting to think it was yours.”

Gavin meets Geoff’s eyes. “That’s actually pretty cool.”

“I’ll make time for you, Gavin. I’d be the shittiest friend in the world if I just abandoned you for my boyfriend, right?”

“Right. Thanks, Geoffrey.”

They sit in an easier silence. Gavin's smile isn't as forced anymore. Geoff chooses to believe he can tell.

It does not feel like an interruption when the doorbell rings. It is more like they were waiting for it without knowing it. 

“Speak of the devil…” Gavin mutters. He cranes his neck to look out through the kitchen window. “Michael and… Ryan and Ray, too. The whole lot of them.”

"We better let them in."

 

For a while they are idle, wasting time as they are wont to do until a sudden spark of activity gets them all going. It takes Geoff's initiative – a loud clap and something bordering on an order – before they crowd around the table. The sun and the lamps conspire to make their shadows overlap, outlines melting together. Geoff places his hands on the table in between the nuances of grey and black and leans forward, sharing a conspiratorial glance with Ryan before clearing his throat.

He catches a glimpse of his own reflection in a half-empty whiskey bottle. It looks like he is about to explain how they’re going to rob a bank. He doesn’t know if the confidence he feels comes from the alcohol itself or the magic he imbued it with, but it still courses through him. And the strangest thing – the best thing, the thing that lets him speak despite the dull nightmares still at the back of his mind – is that everyone around him looks like they’d follow him to the robbery without a second thought.

“So,” he says, “Elephant in the room. By now you’ve all heard I fucking up royally and magically and ended up speaking in tongues. And I have to explain why.”

One would be able to hear a needle drop to the floor in the room.

“I don’t know much,” Geoff continues, “but I can tell you what little I got. It’s about the noises you’ve heard, Gavin, and the dreams you’ve had, Michael – and whatever the rest of you have felt, if anything.” He looks at Ryan, whose mind was always more open and more inclined towards the darker arts, however cheesy that sounds. “There are some _weird_ things happening, and people like us, with the Gift, are the only ones feeling it. I’ve known for a while. Some other colleagues, too. This area is where it is strongest... Just our luck.”

Ryan speaks softly, but demands everyone’s attention all the same, saying, “It’s what made me come here. Strange phenomena. And there’s a cause.” 

The next words are the hardest to say. There are things that should not be said aloud, because that would mean tempting fate. Geoff feels like this is one of them, but he goes ahead anyway; if he summons bad luck, then he hopes it hits him alone. “There is something,” he says, “Something deep below, very old, very magical. Something I thought you could _speak to_.”

Jack says, “But… We’ve never established that any magical creatures exist. Just the power itself. It’s not like there are leprechauns or werewolfs or anything. Why would there be underground eldritch abominations?”

“I don’t know!” Geoff gestures with his hands wildly enough that the almost hits Michael. “Why does your mind leap to _eldritch abomination?_ Me and Heyman just tried to figure out what made our Gifts fucked up, and the more pins we put in our map, the more I felt like there was something _alive_ trying to reach me. Everywhere.”

“So like, a monster?” Michael asks. “What does it want, then?”

“Do you think those words even apply?" Ryan says. "Like it is something that can have a pronoun, or a conciousness to _want?_   Geoff-"

“I tried to contact it in the woods,” Geoff says. He shudders at the memory and tries not to remember. “I found it. It was a _being_ , it had a mind, but there was no speech. Nothing to learn. It was just... vast. _Wrong_.”

The silence is cadaverous, lifeless and laden. It lies on the table before them as thin smoke drifts from the candle wicks. Red tongues stay inert behind bone-white teeth. Eyes are cast downward. 

And then Michael furrows his brows like he is thinking of how to punch whatever horror that hurt Geoff, who finds his reaction endearing. “So like, a _bigass_ monster?” 

“Don’t know,” Geoff says, “Though I can’t say it’s not… something along those lines." He sits down. There's no point in standing like he's got something to preach now. "What fucks me up is that _we don’t know anything_. Just that… Something is there, and I really don’t want to think about it too long. And whatever it is and whatever it is doing, it’s getting worse.” He takes a deep breath. Now that he’s begun, it all comes flooding out of him. Jack places a hand on his shoulder, and it helps him remember where he is. “Ryan had a theory, though.”

And Michael, Gavin, Jack, Ray – they all turn to Ryan’s tall figure, awaiting what he has to say.

“I think it _could_ be conscious, but not like any human mind. It wants something, but it is barely awake.” He gets a distant look in his eyes, as if he is not seeing the same room as the rest of them. “I’ve dreamt with it.”

And what that entails, Geoff can only guess. But gone is the time when he and Ryan were the only ones in the group with this secret – now the rest start to mumble among themselves. Geoff does not try to understand and pick apart the chatter; he sits down, exhausted already. The air feels heavy and humid. He feels as if he is underground, a weight of stone above him. He forces himself to look to the candle-flames and Michael’s eyes, because what Ryan said – _I’ve dreamt with it_ – has made his mind twist inwards on itself.

When he went to the circle of stone there was something great and alive underneath him. He remembers feeling a mind reach his own, drawing him to dreamlike places where he walked along its thoughts as images bloomed, unfading from the forefront of his mind, and the words were of no language and without sentences but he understood them all the same and if Ryan has seen just a few of those things and if Michael knows just a few of the sounds-

“You OK?”

Michael lays an arm around Geoff’s shoulders, warm and alive by his side.

Geoff exhales, only now realizing that he has been holding his breath. “No,” he says, “But it’ll pass.”

There’s a pounding headache on the way. Again he tastes harsh, foreign syllables that press at the back of his throat. Keeping himself from speaking them aloud feels like trying to keep down vomit. He is thankful for Michael’s presence: For a while, he concentrates on feeling his lungs expand and contract. He does not care who sees him and Michael sitting so close together, not even as he leans in. Michael, perhaps sensing the unease Geoff feels, speaks softly.

“What you were doing out there…” Michael asks quietly, “Why’d you keep it secret?”

“I… didn’t want you to worry.”

“But it seems like something you’d _need_ to worry about. I still don’t… get it. It sounds kind of fucked up. Unreal.”

“Like the plot of a horror novel?” Geoff offers.

“Like _a_  plot, anyway.” Michael straightens his back. “ _Something_ is fucking with our magic. That explains the dreams, at least. But nothing else.”

 _What dreams have Michael had?_ Geoff feels bad, thinking about imagined nights, MIchael restless in his bed. He can feel that he’s about to say something sappy when Ryan strides over -

“We’re going to be alright,” Ryan says, and it’s impossible to discern whether he means it or not. “We’ll learn more,” he adds, suddenly towering over the both of them. “And we’ll do something about it.”

“Any ideas?” Michael asks skeptically.

Ryan smiles. It’s like he’s the only one not confused about the whole revelation. Maybe because it isn’t news to him. “A few.”

“All in this together,” Ray chips in from across the room. 

Geoff takes a deep breath. “I.. Me, Ryan and my other contacts, we’ve _got this_. There’s no need for you, Ray, and  - and Gavin to get in danger – And Michael…”

For a moment, the room goes silent. Geoff feels the others watching him and Michael, taking in how close they are, putting two and two together. But he does not mind. Michael initiated. Michael, as always, thoughtlessly and easily revealed what Geoff would have put off saying. And in the faces of his friends, Geoff reads no resentment.

“Wow. Thanks,” Ray deadpans. Offhandedly, he adds, “…By the way, congrats on that thing working out for you.”

 Gavin has something strange in his eyes that stays with Geoff. A kind of hard sheen to them, like he is miles away mentally. It’s gone again soon enough, but he opts to stand by the couch instead of sitting down - and why would he do that, when he usually never cares where he sprawls himself? “Geoff, come on. Let us help. It’s our fight, too. If it’s a fight.” 

"...You're right. Sorry."

Gavin runs his fingers through his hair. "Eldritch monsters, huh.”

“You could say that,” Geoff mumbles.

“Stupid uncertainty. I don’t… Can you at least say why it’s making the _bloody noises?_ ”

“Noises?”

“The voices I’m hearing.”

Geoff shakes his head. “Sorry, Gav, I don’t-“

“I really hope that’s from this and not me getting deranged.” Gavin crosses his arms. “So, we need to figure out if there’s anything we can do, right? A spell to stop it or a way to blow it up it or… something.”

“Or something,” Geoff agrees. “But you have to be careful.”

“You really think this is dangerous.” The serious edge in Gavin’s voice causes an almost physical pang of pain in Geoff’s chest.

“Probably, yes-”

Gavin cuts him off mid-sentence, his hand suddenly seizing the nearby Michael by his arm. “Then I’m gonna have to borrow Michael for a sec.”

Geoff and Michael, in unison, utter a simple “What?” 

“Aw,” Gavin says. “Don’t expect to sit there like lovebirds all evenin’! I’ll give him right back.”

They leave with a flailing of arms more suited for… Well, almost everything else. There is not a lot of light-heartedness to this discussion. There is not a lot more to say.

Gavin and Michael disappear into the kitchen.

Ryan comes over puts a warm mug into Geoff’s hands – _You put a spell on me_ , plain black on white text – and gives him a sort of gentle look, like he is seeing something Geoff is oblivious to and pitying him for his ignorance.

Geoff watches different constellations form between the people in his house. The traces of their lights and Gifts bleed into each other in different patterns, and he allows his thoughts to wander.

* * *

 **Gavin** is having none of it. None of the secrecy and especially none of the _don’t-worry-leave-it-to-the-grown-ups-_ talk. He and Michael are thinking the same thing – he can see it clear as day. They, too, have a right to know. A right to know everything. 

They hide away in the kitchen, Gavin turning on the kettle partly because it'll make their voices harder to hear and partly because he feels like he needs a warm cup for comfort. Ray and Ryan’s conversation in the other room helps, too, as does Jack when he sits down next to Geoff and talks slowly about something that is probably boring. 

“That settles it,” Gavin declares. ”You and I are gonna do our own research.”

“Wow. Look at Mr. Science here,” Michael deadpans. 

“If I have to get scientific, I will. I can be that, you know." 

“I’m taking your word for it.”

“It's our problem too, right? We can't let Geoff burden himself with it, right?" Gavin takes a breath. "I know some people.  Geoff knows them too. We were there ages ago, but I know he hasn't been back for a while. Another little coven. An Adam and… James or something?”

“Why're you asking me?" Michael says. He pauses as Ray appears in the doorway, glancing at both him and Gavin, picking up on the situation.

“Kovic’s Coven?" Ray says. "Whew.”

“What the matter?” Michael asks. “Are they assholes?”

“We worked with them once,” Ray explains. “It was meh. Just didn’t work out so well. They’re assholes like us, but they’ve got some different standards. They think they’re more _serious_ and experienced than we are.”

Michael snorts, “Can't imagine that. Are they? I mean, when things aren’t this dire.”

“Have I ever told you about the fish-incident?” Gavin asks, settling that question.

“I cursed my DS once,” Ray adds.

Gavin cracks a smile, saying, “That sounds like a bad i-“

“It _was_ a bad idea.”

“They have a library, though,” Gavin says. “A real nice one. Older than them. Don’t know where they got it from. The librarian's the coolest part, though, and I think he'll know for sure-”

Ray says, “Don’t forget the useless bullshit.”

“Oh! Yeah, they had all this junk lying around…”

“Junk?” Michael asks.

Gavin leans back theatrically, making it look like he’s about to tell a story. He kind of is. It’s easier to think about than all the shit Geoff just put on them. “This guy Bruce got his hands on some awful magic stuff. Spells that always go wrong, a welcome mat that just screams all the time… And he complained about it but somewhere along the line it just became this rumor that he really wanted all that weird stuff you inherit or find at yard sales or in old haunted houses.” Gavin clicks his tongue. “Now the whole coven’s got cursed books and CD-ROMS up their collective arses.”

“They’re miserable,” Ray adds.

Michael furrows his brows in disbelief. “And that’s gonna be useful?”

Gavin shrugs. “Might be. There have been diamonds in the rough before. We’re just gonna say we need to know about all the weirdest stuff they can find for us. This… something affecting people with the Gift could’ve happened before, right? The must be history.”

“Fingers crossed,” Michael says.

“If you two check that out, I’m getting Ryan to let me in on some of his stuff. He has plans of his own,” Ray says.

Gavin looks at Michael. The light falls so wonderfully golden in his coppery hair. He doesn’t look one bit like someone who has just been exposed to the existence of Very Bad Thing We Don’t Know A Lot About. “You drive.”

Michael smiles and nods. “Sure. Whatever. Team Lads road trip. Or at least two-thirds of us.”

With that, it’s settled.

 _So okay, life just got more complicated_ , Gavin thinks. Like he needed more shit to think about. Now there’s also a problem with their Gifts, and Geoff seems to think it is caused by a fucking monster, but at least…

At least there’ll be an afternoon with Michael in another city, and Kovic and company with all their toys and tomes, and maybe he can try to _fix_ this problem, at least.

 

 

* * *

 

 **Michael** has his own problems to fix, too. Like his goddamn grades. 

One AM is not as much a time as it is a place, separated from everywhere else by a curtain of winter night. He sits cross-legged on a table. Around him lie these torn pages and too many pieces of lined paper. A notebook levitates while an equally floating pen scribbles away.

He keeps one hand raised to keep the notebook in the air, but he is pleased with how little concentration it requires. He is able to read at the same time, and when he speaks the words aloud, the pen writes them down.

Lines and lines of them.

The textbook flips to the next page by itself. The only noise is the rustle of paper and the scratch of the pen. He has tried to slow time, but could not get the hang of it. Not with Gavin’s ease and talent, and frustration only made it worse. He has settled for making the most of all the time he can wring out of the night before he needs to sleep. God knows he’s tired enough already.

His computer shifts through tabs by itself, scrolls through rows of google results and finds the appropriate pages. He glances at them, speaks aloud, adds to his notes. The pen doodles in the margin whenever he becomes distracted. It draws a caricature of a bigger city and the view from a car window.

Michael breathes even and deep, knowing only the tempo of heartbeats. A white light travels from left to right in his room as the cars drive by outside: The pen draws.

Flower, moon, crown, ship, black waves of ink crashing against the edge of the page.

Smoke rises lazily from his cup of coffee, and with his free hand he draws circles and patterns in the air. He visualizes the trails of magic left by his fingertips. The imprint he carves into the world itself. Energy flows to his limbs, and he reads a little longer. The cup rises, and just because he _can_ he makes it settle at his lips and drift away again once it is empty. He can appreciate little moments of happiness like that. 

When he nods off to sleep, everything clatters to the floor.

* * *

 

_**Below, sleeping and billowing.** _

_Stirring._

_Too body-less and shape-lacking to be twitching and moving, but stirring nonetheless, a murmur of thoughts rising to a whisper. Reaching for above, not with hands, but with upside-down tree-roots and transparent tentacles, timeless intent and unlimited patience. Still dreaming._

_The dreams are a world. Nothing less can keep back the uncontainable and hide away the heresy. A world of underground unrunning rivers surrounded by uncanny shadows. A world of swamp and soft mist and weak wills._

_A withering world, with nothing but waning moons in the sky._

_Below, raising at once a thousand thousand trembling appendages to an above from whence blood tickles on dry stone, nourishing the soft flesh-less limbs. Once a sound of screaming men, later slaughtered sheep, now this smaller prey that is still more plentiful than what many other beings are given, and each killing is a birth of cracks in the dream._

_A black cat saunters down the wrong passage and never sees the sun again._

_A man wrings his hands around a cat’s neck, again and again and again until it is still; the life that was in it is swallowed in a sacred circle. Thousands of years, yes, and hundreds of raised hands, yes, and for this: for praise, for breaking and stirring and unbreathing. Adding, not removing._

_Finding a boy with red palms, leaving marks on each tree he touches as he makes his way through the woods and giving him more breath. Adding the air in the dream to the air in his body and making a pact. Aeolian words form in his mouth without him gathering why, nor does he learn of the laws that govern the Gift._

_Finding many judged unworthy – and still bestowing upon them that which they may take, for the mire of impulses that is their minds is too small to comprehend. Like caves, they collapse._

_Contacting; wrapping arms around their bodies and drawing in, and down, and out, until brains spill from knowledge-hungry mouths._

_Knowing hunger. In a dream, there is no hunger, but it seeps through the cracks and grows and soon – soon there will be waking, and wanting._

_For now – a tighter grip. Whispering a name to an open mind and ceding a sight to another, all the devoted and dreamlike descending to man._

_A passive waiting for promises and pacts to be fulfilled._

_A waiting for the heavy fruits of the world above, and for dead cats, and bulls and horses and all the lines and angles of bodies upon altars under new skies._

* * *

Morning.

Not the day after. A little later. Michael wakes after a few days of wandering, watching, a few more nights of studying. More hours of ash-smeared hands and burned-down candles.

He is catching up.

Breathing spells and eating herbs. Looking forward to his and Gavin’s trip keeps him going.  He can see an open road when he closes his eyes. 

It is morning: The shell of the sky is cracked open and a color like beaten egg yolks sweeps in.

The classroom is empty when Michael gets there. He is early. He holds no contempt for the space despite himself, but he does like it more when it is silent. It helps with the headache he’s had all morning, too. He is managing with naps and magic and good old-fashioned coffee, and something in his body is changing and accepting the new sleep cycle. Now he waits under the yellow lights, folding his hands in front of him and feeling his limbs turn lighter.

He opens his bag to get out his notes – pretty, well-written notes. He actually _knows_ his stuff, now. He wants to put them out on the table so all the students who go by can get impressed by him.

The notebook has other plans, still stuffed with magic and spells that have gotten a bit too smudged to really obey -

As soon as it has the chance, it flies straight to the ceiling with what looks like a hundred miles an hour. Michael jumps back with an undignified yelp.

There’s a taste of coal in his mouth and all hell breaks loose.

The book circles, rapidly gaining speed, basking its cover as if it was a pair of wings. Pages rain down with each wingbeat.

“Oh, fuck you!” Michael exclaims. He stretches out his hand and does his best to get it _down_ , _down, boy_ , but he only succeeds in making it shake a little. Somewhere between anger and resignation, Michael climbs up on a table. “Oh, fuck me.”

Arms raised and turned to the ceiling, he keeps calling the book down and it keeps disobeying. He closes his eyes and imagines, as he has before, a thin string of energy connecting him and the object. He can’t articulate any focused thought, though. He’s too worried about someone coming in and seeing the spectacle. His thoughts are slipping between his fingers-

Footsteps out in the hallway.

The sound does _not_ help. Everything becomes a stream of _oh shit, oh shit, get it together, fuck, someone’s coming, doesn’t matter, focus –_ The book flaps into a lamp, the resulting sound way too loud. More curses come past Michael’s lips more or less without him registering it, a natural biological response to the situation.

The doorknob starts to turn.

Someone asks, “Michael?” It takes a moment before he realizes that the voice is Kerry’s, and then he dares a quick look back over his shoulder – yep, that’s Kerry’s silhouette behind the little window in the door. Michael looks back up – yep, that’s a flying notebook.

“Get back here,” he whispers. “ _Descendo_ , you fucker.”

But the end result convinces Michael that the book cares as little for latin as any other language he could throw at it.

Finally, he comes to a decision. To bring a book down, he’ll have to clip its wings. As the door opens behind him, Michael focuses as much as he can on the black cover. Only that shall burn. It comes to him wordlessly.

There’s a few sparks in the air, charred blackness spreading, holes appearing, and the flapping turns uncoordinated.

The book falls to the floor, hemorrhaging pages that scatter everywhere. Michael pretends he didn’t hear the sad noise it made. He jumps down from the table, striding to pick it up as he thinks of how many of his notes that are still salvageable. It seems like most made it unscathed, and that he made it just in time. For once, he’s lucky.

Kerry enters the room with a raised eyebrow.

Okay, kind of lucky. He still has to explain why there's burned paper everywhere. 

“What was that noise?” Kerry asks, “Rats in the walls or what?”

“I don’t know!” Michael says, putting on a confused expression that he knows must look exaggerated.  “Pretty weird! By the way, can I borrow your notes? Mine might be out of order and I think I’m gonna miss a few pages. They were…” They both look to the mess of loose pages on the floor. “Involved in a tragic accident.

“Yeah. Something like that.” Kerry complies, but he is slow about it, giving Michael plenty of time to catch his breath and think of an explanation. “How do you _make_ a mess like this?” 

“I almost don’t wanna answer,” Michael says, “Don’t want to ruin the mystery.”

“Then don’t.” Kerry furrows his brow. “That wasn’t what I wanted to tell you if we met, anyway. Lindsay – and, well, me and Caleb and the rest – the usual lunch gang – we’re getting kind of worried about you.”

Michael kneels down to pick up a page from the floor. It is easier to stare at his feet and the ash than Kerry. Easier to lie and say, “Nah, don’t worry. Just a bit of school-related stress. It’s that time of the term.”

“…If you say so.”

Michael just wants Kerry to leave, because gathering all these notes will be a million times easier when he can just snap his fingers and say a few words to make them come.

 

And when he sits at the table with his friends – because he went anyway, felt like he needed at least the sweet illusion of normalcy – he finds it hard to focus on what is happening.

 

Lindsay shoves a sandwich in his face and tells him he _needs to eat_ and he does. Words get stuck in his throat. Words like _I have a friend who thinks there are horrible unknown things out there._

He says nothing. He eats quickly, wondering when plain white sandwich bread started tasting so  _good._

The closest he comes to revealing something is when he mentions – as offhandedly as possibly – that “I’ve got a _special someone_ in my life now, by the way.”

Lindsay smiles in this way that makes her dimples much more apparent and brings her eyebrows all the way up to her bright-red bangs. “What brought that on?”

“I just thought I’d give you some good news,” Michael says. “Make you less worried ‘bout me. Lots of other people found out a little while ago, too. Might as well tell you.”

“It is the brit?”

Michael laughs. “No, It’s not the brit, how many times do I have to tell you…” His voice trails off, but Lindsay doesn’t seem to notice. She’s explaining the situation to Trevor, who was too caught up in his lunch to hear the beginning of the conversation, and that gives Michael a second to think.

So no, it’s not the brit.

He distracts himself with teasing Lindsay, letting her guess who his _bird_ is. He trusts her easily and lets her figure out that it’s a man, older than him – though not how much – and that it isn’t someone she knows. Maybe she guesses it is the tattooed guy she has seen him talking with once before. Maybe not. 

But for just a moment, Michael imagined someone else.


	14. Glimpses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References ahoy.  
> I couldn't fit it in elegantly, but Joel's magical practices are sort of inspired by practical Kabbalah, and I imagine Elyse is a natural at psychometry (which is often an... uncomfortable talent in that particular working place).

Michael sees the world differently from the moment he opens his eyes to the sunlight _._ The air feels electric and the sky, the marks in the asphalt, the half-formed words in his head all seem to have unknown and hidden purposes. 

A text message makes his phone beep, and he doesn’t need to look to know who it is.

 _“Come down”_ , Gavin writes, “ _I’m waiting.”_

The start is a little difficult: Michael comes running down the stairs and Gavin freezes up somewhere between a high five, a handshake and a half-hug once he comes close. Despite the terrifying amalgamation of the three that they produce, Michael likes the grounding touch. 

And Gavin is all quick movement and loud noise when he stumbles into the passenger seat and slams the door for good measure. His knees knock against the glove compartment, causing it to open, and for the next ten minutes the sound of the engine is accompanied by rustling paper as he shoves the various lists and licenses back into place. Michael feels a little high once he sees the small town disappear in the rear view mirror, and judging by the look on his face, Gavin feels the same.

They don’t turn on the radio this time.

It would ruin everything to allow the outside world into this little space they have found. In the car, it is just the two of them. Everyone else and  _everything_  else can fuck right off as far as Michael’s concerned. All the family-sized SUV’s with stickers on the back windows, all the rusty pick-up trucks and all the little practical,  _reasonable_ small cars belong to a separate reality. Not to Michael and Gavin’s. Michael takes pity on the passing drivers. They can see the same things that he can, but they can’t understand the deeper meaning, numb to the magic around them. He considers that he might never have belonged to that reality, the mundane and ordinary, but to this other side with Gavin and ghostly voices. It tastes a bit like wishful thinking, but he dares to indulge.

Gavin is leaning forward, looking out the front and up at the sky.  They drive by derelict signs promising heaven and hell, abandoned in dead fields of wheat that stretch out forever. There are rest stops and blinking fast food logos, but no reason to stop and break the spell. Once Gavin decides it is too quiet, he makes up dumb hypothetical questions. They have a conversation about nothing that still matters so much.

They are far from any town. In the distance, a wooded area is in the process of consuming a broken-down car wreck, rusted red like the iron-rich earth. Growths crawl all over the chassis. Seeing the scene in passing, Michael feels he has more in common with the grasping plants than the driver in the car behind him.

Gavin rolls down the window. The wind bursts into the small space, filling it with noise.

“Shut it,” Michael says, “Or the air con won’t work.”

“Screw the air conditioning,” Gavin replies, “It’s way too hot anyway.” He leans against the door, letting the wind hit him right in the face. Once again his hair loses all semblance of shape and style, but the sun hits him just right, his eyes light up, and he smiles.

“Enjoying yourself?” Michael asks.

“I just felt like I was suffocating or something,” Gavin says, “Back there.” He points with his thumb, and Michael understands that to mean back in the town, back home. There’s a moment where Gavin looks down, giving the impression that might quite have left what bothered him behind – then it is gone. “I’m glad we’re going. Plus, I’m feeling super useful. We’re going to learn stuff, boi!”

“Yeah. Sure.” Michael’s grip on the steering wheel has become loose and relaxed. He sighs contently. He can find a sort of zen just staring at landscape as he moves through it, listening to the wind.  “When we get there, you lead the way.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“…Are you saying you’re not _sure_ about where exactly we’re going?” Michael asks.

Gavin shrinks a bit, rolling the window back up for the sake of making it easier to talk. “Well,” he begins, “I have the worst sense of direction, to be honest, but once we get there…”

“You’ll just remember?”

Gavin shrugs. “There’s always Google maps. Or tracking spells if that doesn’t work. I mean, um, I’m sure there’s gotta be a park somewhere where we can steal some sticks and such, right?”

Michael sighs. Ahead, the road splits and the signs start pointing to what Gavin said would be their destination. “Alright. Fuck it. We can continue this talk once we get there,” he says, and that seems to calm Gavin.

“I think we’re going to have a good time, seeing them,” Gavin says. “Seeing other people. They’re fun.”

“Coming from you, that makes me a little worried.” 

“Don’t be worried, Michael.” Gavin places a hand on Michael’s shoulder, a fleeting touch. “Oh,” he says, withdrawing again, “Shouldn’t do that while you’re driving.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

But it's like Gavin can’t hear him as he leans back against the door, repeating himself – “Shouldn’t do that” – quietly, like Michael won't notice. 

They pass a few more fields, a few more nuances of brown and black. The sky turns every color in-between aquamarine and star sapphire; Michael can easily imagine how the air must taste: dry and cold. He takes another drink of stale coke.

“You’ve gone kind of quiet, Gavin."

“It’s nothing.” Gavin shakes his head. “A little bout of voices again, you know?”

“…No, I _don’t_ know. Do you… hear that a lot?”

Gavin gestures with a kind of feigned casualty that Michael sees straight through. “Sometimes. It’s been getting worse. But that’s why we’re doing this, right? To make that kind of thing better."

Michael swallows, his throat dry and sticky. He brings his eyes back to the road. “Okay.”

He’d like to say more than that, but he can’t really figure a sentence out before Gavin speaks again.

“We’re almost there.”

* * *

Michael is led to a shopping street, and the whole time he keeps thinking that something must be wrong. How would they find a practicing coven between clothing stores and cafés? There are people walking all around them with shopping bags in their hands, sipping branded coffee. He almost wants to hex some of those cups out of their owner’s hands. Just because he can. He does not get a chance to tell Gavin, who is further ahead even though he stops at every intersection to compare the view with his memory.

When they find the place, it is a simple, yellow building. It is three stories tall and flanked on either side by much larger stores. The second floor has a coffee shop ( _of course_ ) that advertises hipster lattes. A sign slowly peeling off the wall advertises that the first floor is empty and for lease. The store windows are blocked by drawn shades, and what little Michael can see beyond them is just an empty room.

“Are you sure,” Michael asks, turning to look at Gavin, “Like, absolutely, one hundred percent sure, that this is the place?”

“Now that I see it, yep.” Gavin strides confidently forward. “You just have to come ‘round back.”

 

Michael takes a few steps forward, ahead of Gavin, turning the corner of the building. More brick and concrete, a turned-over trashcan and yesterday’s news laying on the ground. Michael steps on the decaying paper, studying the back wall of the coffee shop. There’s a door with a sign that says “ _staff only”_. There are no other windows, not even on the floor above. Michael wants to take a step back and consider their options, but Gavin heads straight for the door.

“Come on,” he says. “Try opening it.”

When Michael does, the unlocked door swings open. Inside, there is a hallway that just looks abandoned and grey; exactly as you’d expect the back of an unrented building to look like. There are stairs, worn white on the middle of each step, and one other door that must lead further into the (empty?) first floor. The little window is completely opaque. The handle doesn’t budge.

“This doesn’t seem like the right place,” Michael says.

Gavin nods. “I think that’s the whole point, Michael. Stay back,” he declares, stretching out a hand to push Michael back behind him. He raises the other to the window and draws a circle on the glass. Little blue sparks appear as Michael feels Gavin’s gift spring to life. He’s glad that Gavin is distracted like this, because he’s pretty sure his face is getting redder. On the door, blue runes appear: Michael understands them to be the physical manifestation of Gavin’s words. “ _Sumus amici; scimus artem; intramus.”_

The words fade out, leaving the two of them standing once more in front of a door. But now the handle moves by itself as the lock clicks and Gavin takes a gleeful step back. “There we go,” he says. “Try now.”

Michael opens the door slowly this time, peeking in through the crack.

 

There is a room on the other side. A room bathed in orange and red. This is the abandoned first floor that Michael could see from the street, but now it is so  _different_. Not abandoned at all.

Now, there is so much life and noise. Every single surface is covered in color. The walls are painted or papered with posters. There are stacks of books on the floor, old wooden furniture, feathers and dolls scattered about. Rows of binders on the shelves. Some of the things seem like they would belong in a museum while others seem to have come straight from basements and attics.

In the middle of the mess, six people turn to look at the two guests. When they move, they are not alone as pendulums swing in tall clocks, candle flames flicker – and did that portrait just change its expression? Did that wooden box just open by itself, and did that doll stand up and roll its eyes?

Michael raises a hand in a nervous wave as a kind of greeting. 

The men – and the one woman among them, blonde and perched atop a stack of Moroccan-looking pillows – look at each other, silently deliberating. Finally, one of them steps forward while the rest return to whatever they were doing before – work, as far as Michael can gather, that has something to do with restoring and categorizing.  

The man who greets Michael has a few days’ worth of stubble and a very tired expression. “Adam Kovic,” he says. He points back to the others and names them: James, blonde with these baby-blue eyes and studying some handheld game system with all the wires pulled out; Bruce, typing away at a computer with charred edges. Lawrence is the one wiping off his thick-rimmed glasses while kneeling by cardboard box marked “ _misc”_ in bright pink marker. Elyse on the pillows, a tablet floating in front of her, and Joel drawing in a notebook at her feet. Michael doesn’t really make an effort at remembering their names. He’ll do it if it looks like he’ll come back again. “And you must be Michael.”

“That’s right,” Michael says, and he doesn’t know if he should hold out his hand for a handshake. It does not matter - Adam moves quickly on to Gavin.

“I remember you,” Adam says, “Are you in a hurry?”

“Not really. How about you? How’re things?”

Adam’s eyes dart back to the other people, all talking merrily and loudly again. Behind them, the storefront windows show the busy shopping street where absolutely no one looks in. Michael can hear a whispered spell in some far corner. James makes the wires unknot themselves. Lawrence paces around the box, and Michael can tell by the movement of his lips and hands that he is casting a circle, a sense of calm settling over the room. The floor is an intricate pattern of sigils.

 _These feel like my people,_ Michael thinks.

He can’t sense their auras, but he feels a sense of solidarity all the same.

Lawrence jumps backwards, startled, ruining the serenity of the moment.  

“Shit!” he exclaims, “I swear to  _God_  that anime body pillow just winked at me!”

“It probably didn’t,” Adam says. His voice is just _dead_.

“No, I’m telling you it’s cursed! It’s all this magic junk – who’s to say it won’t rub off?”

“Just burn it, please,” Adam says, without even turning to look at the commotion. He rolls his eyes, and Gavin laughs. “It’s still just that kind of bullshit most of the time. You get used to it…” Behind him, the cardboard box is now on fire. It’s a controlled kind of burning, steady and slow.

"Don’t take your bad mood out on me," Lawrence continues, " _I_ should be the grumpy one because I have the box that contains a _cursed anime body pillow._ ”

 

“Who’s to say it wasn’t just Bruce or James fucking with you?” Adam asks. Muddled protests arise from the two in question. Adam sighs and waves his hand, making the smoke fade into clear air.  “And careful with the fire alarm.”

James raises his voice from the other side of the room. “I promise we’re the best at what we do!”

“Yeah, but what we do is collect magic junk and cursed video games,” Adam adds. He turns back to his guests, saying, “I know that wasn’t a good first impression, but hey. It’s an honest one, at least. What can I do for you?”

“We’re doing research,” Michael tries, “On stuff like-“

 “You want Matt for that,” Adam interrupts.  “Anyone seen him lately? Elyse?”

"Saw him... I think it was twenty minutes ago?” Elyse says, brushing a lock of blonde hair away from her face. “But you know him – ‘Gotta get back to work’. Sucker.”

 “This way, then,” Adam says. He starts walking, pushing Gavin gently along, down towards a door that Michael hadn’t noticed before – low, small and dark, like the entrance to a cellar.

 “Peake will know how to find whatever you need.”

“Peake?” Michael asks. He can’t decide if the name and the way they’ve all talked about the guy brings to mind a grey-haired librarian or an over-eager intern.

Gavin clarifies – “Michael’s pretty new.”

“Oh,” Adam looks at Michael once more as if judging him. “He doesn’t give off that vibe.”

“Thanks, I guess,” Michael mutters.

“Anyway, Peake’s sort of… Wierd.” Adam illustrates with a wiggly hand gesture. “ _Nice_ and all. Just a little weird.”

“If that back there’s normal, I wonder what ‘a little weird’ is like.”

Adam chuckles, pushing open the door. Behind it is, as Michael had predicted, stairs sloping downwards. Something feels wrong about it – shouldn’t there be water pipes here? Or cables, or solid concrete or  _something_  other than the stone tiles that cover the walls? The passage is lit by a string of cheap lights. The shadows do not flicker, but there are many, and they overlap in a myriad of patterns as their three sources descend. 

“Peake,” Adam says, “was born with a powerful Gift. All the stars aligned and fate smiled and decided that _this_ dude was going to herald in a new age or something _._ That magnitude. He wasn’t  _found_  by anyone. He just… showed up by himself.” Adam looks down, smiling at a memory. “He has this innate understanding of how magic works, but he’s quiet about it. If he wanted, he could probably have weaponized the hell out of it. But he didn't.”

“So you just locked him in your basement?” Michael asks.

 “Peake is working,” Adam says. “He doesn’t try to use his Gift for good or bad or all this fucking around that the rest of us are so preoccupied with. He’s… content just categorizing and learning. I’m kind of proud.” His voice already told Michael this several sentences ago. 

The stairs creak. Then, finally, they reach the bottom. An arch rises in front of them, and beyond that – darkness.

“Come on,” Gavin says, sensing Michael’s concern. “Nothin’ to worry about.”

Adam goes first. Then Gavin grabs Michael by the arm and pulls him in. He realizes that it is just a doorway, not a portal.

On the other side, Adam flicks on a light switch.

Instead of uniform white ceiling lights, a myriad of different lamps come to life everywhere – on the floor, on the rows of tables, nestled in between books on the shelves of the bookcases. The kind you walk past in flea markets, with green glass or tassels or porcelain bodies. Warm red and yellows mix with shades of green and blue on the tiled floor or dark wood. The ceiling is lost in darkness above. The room is very long, larger than Michael’s common sense tells him it should be. The chairs that might once have been lined up with the tables are scattered in the narrow aisles between the uncountable bookcases, and the aisles themselves fade into shadows some hundred meters ahead.

The chairs are empty, except for one, but it takes time before Michael notices. His eyes have to adjust before he sees the one screen amid the lamps. The tablet flickers as it is turned off by the man who must be Matt Peake.

He actually  _does_  look vaguely like a cult leader. He is leaning back in his chair, piles of books neatly stacked in front of him. He does not have a clear silhouette, just an uneven, dark shape – the little table lamp shines brighter and Michael sees the hooded cape, the soft folds and the coarse brown fabric. Whether Peake is consciously copying a medieval monk or not, it cannot be denied that he leaves that specific impression.

Gavin twitches when Peake stands up. Michael can feel the power emanating from the stranger too. They’re not close at all, but Peake’s presence is as strong as if they were touching. It’s effortless, like he’s not even trying. If the situation had been any other and Peake had not looked so harmless as he pushed the chair back in, Michael could see himself wanting to defer to this man. For someone with a rebellious streak a mile wide, that feeling is worrying.

Gavin leans in and whispers, “They say he’s a cult leader down in LA.”

“ _Was_  a cult leader,” Adam says. “He got out of it. Or everyone else did.”

Peake steps forward, the light now showing his facial features, the brown hair and the beard and the way his arms are wrapped tight around his body. He has laughter-lines by his mouth. “Actually, I think my followers are still going at it,” he says. “So technically, I guess I am still.”

Gavin forms something like an upside-down V with his hands, like a lazy prayer – or a mountain – Michael can kind of see it. It makes Peake laugh softly.

“Don’t start that,” he says jokingly. “Come on, and I’ll help you find what you need.”

Adam slinks back to the doorway from whence they came. He doesn’t try to hide– the stairs are loud, creaking as he ascends. He might have waved goodbye. Michael is too busy to have noticed. He and Gavin walk side by side. Further in.

Gavin walks past so many different lamps that light of every color washes across his face. Michael admires him in red and orange, in somber blue, and sees how the green of a floor lamp brings out the color of his eyes. It’s not where he  _should_  be looking. He should be focusing on the books. There are so many of them:  shelved, laying on the floor or on the tables. Most are old, but some are new and wrapped in shiny plastic wrap. Self-published self-help books. Geology textbooks. A few comics lie on the nearest table, surely not a part of the library itself.

Peake pulls his hood down.

“I’m a little cold,” he says by way of an excuse. “Hence the clothes - enchanted. Fairly warm. So… What are you looking for?”

Gavin and Michael look at one another.  _What_  exactly they are looking for is a little hard to define. Michael hasn’t thought about their situation in terms that could be used to search a library.

"I'm stupid," he says, "So I don't know how to tell you-"

Gavin interrupts - “We need _everything_ we can get about weird phenomena near… I guess the entire Miskatonic Valley. And whatever you have about magical creatures - the kind that’s real, not unicorns and stuff.” He takes a deep breath and then, in a slightly lower voice adds, “ _Old things_ , I think. The kind that might cause… delusions.”

Peake nods slowly, though not in a way that suggests he isn’t wracking his mind for something that can satisfy the odd request. He leads the way down past another row of bookcases. There are holes in the shelves and burn marks along the edges, clear signs of use, but then again none of the furniture seems new. The longer they walk, the more Michael becomes aware that everything is mismatched and no two items are the same. Patterns change, as do materials and size. He reaches out and trails his fingers along the shelves while they make their way further and further into the labyrinth.

“Where does all this come from?” he asks.

“This library isn’t ours,” Peake answers. “We just added to it, but it’s older than us. It was lying in wait as, um…  a leftover from an older coven in this city.”

“Why’d _they_ leave it?”

“Who knows.” Peake’s voice is emotionless. “They were gone before we came. Maybe even before we were born-”

“Ah!” Gavin exclaims, _almost_ tripping over a cable. He grins at Michael – “I saved it!”

Michael pats him on the back for the effort.

Peake does not react. He calmly orients himself in the crossings, and Michael theorizes that he uses the lamps for guidance.  

Michael has light goosebumps on his arms from how wrong it is that there is a room this size where it should not be able to fit. There’s still that little part of him that hasn’t gotten the message that reality apparently  _is_  fundamentally flawed; that this is  _possible_. The part of him that accepts the magic more readily asks what had to be sacrificed to keep a spell of this magnitude going so that the room does not collapse or cease existing, but he tries not to dwell on it.

Finally, Peake stops and spreads his arms in a gesture that looks like a very lazy version of a presenter’s final flourish. “Here we are,” he says. “I haven’t gotten around to organizing this part. If you gave me a couple of hours I could see what I could do, but I’m guessing you’d rather just try for yourself.”

“Sounds right,” Michael says.

Peake says a few words in a voice that doesn’t sound like his own, all muffled by the beard. When he raises his hand in front of him, fingers stretched apart and the red palm showing, his face is still expressionless. No sign of strain or effort. But in each bookcase, ten to fifteen book spines start to glow a soft blue, varying in intensity. “I’ve marked the relevant books. Be sure to be careful and put them back where you found them.”

Michael is just staring at the sheer volume of books they’ll have to get through, glad that Gavin has the wits to say “Thanks.”  

Peake leaves, the sound of his footsteps gone surprisingly fast.

“From cult leader to dignified librarian,” Gavin mumbles, turning around to take in the blue lights. “How do you want to do this?”

Michael pushes his shoulders back. “Fuck if I know. How about we each take ten and flip through them until we find something?”

“Sounds good.” Gavin moves first, filling his arms with a mix of history books and aged leather tomes.

 

Michael’s hands travel over spines of leather and vellum, parchment, marbled book boards. Real and heavy in his hands despite the diffuse subject matter. He tries to let his sixth sense guide him, choosing by emotion and gut feeling.

He carries his armful of knowledge to a slim table and pulls out a chair. He flips through the first pages of  _A Brief History of Brirrish Colonial America, vol.3,_ while Gavin sits down next to him. Books tumble from Gavin’s arms and the chair screeches against the floor. Then the sounds are swallowed up by shadows: Silence falls, broken only by the rustling of paper.

Michael works his way through the first book, then the second, then the third. “ _Diaries of Alchemy_.” “ _A Journey Through the Magical Communities of the Eastren America.” “Dreams.”_   Lists upon lists, facts, places, people. All blurring together. He should’ve brought paper and pen. Should be taking notes.  Instead, he has to keep it in his head. Sorting the irrelevant from the important is a skill he likes to think that he has mastered, but it’s hard to tell, now.

He is aware of Gavin by his side, taking these quick breaths every time he turns a page or picks up a new book like he’s certain that  _this time_ , he will find all the answers.

Michael finds no answers, no mentions of voices or visions at first. There are mentions of magic-users dating as far back as there were settlers. Secret history books written by the witches themselves. There are descriptions of men and women who do their god dammed best to not get pegged as devil-worshippers by the puritans, and of charlatans pretending they’re making holy miracles.

Gavin stretches his arms above his head. His shirt rides up a little, exposing his stomach. When he stops stretching, he lurches forward, leaning on his elbows like all his bones have gone soft inside him. “Look at this, Michael. Did you know we live in the part of America has the most unsolved crimes? The interesting ones, at least.”

“That’s kind of unspecific.”

Michael doesn’t even need to look to know that Gavin is pouting. “Like, murders and missing people – those are murders too, I bet… Missing animals. The creepy kind of crimes.”

“Are missing animals creepy now?” Michael asks.

“Sometimes. Like, when the animal gets murdered, maybe.”

Michael takes a moment to take it in, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “Wait a minute,” he says, “I think that might be important. Remember that, OK?”

“Yeah, I’ll try.” Gavin goes back to his reading, and Michael does he same. He finds it harder to concentrate, though, the words never quite settling in his head.

He picks up a diary that looks promising, for behind the burned cover is an old description of a little village, barely a town, and the nightmares that grip the inhabitants. There is exactly one eye-witness account. A girl – and just from the words she uses, Michael starts creating an image of her in his head: She’s tan and wearing one of those long blue dresses that probably itched like hell, the kind he has seen in paintings, always worn close to haystacks or horses. She talks about something underground that swallows the seeds they sow. Three pages later, she’s gone.  _Assumed to have perished_ , the book says,  _after wandering off under influence of a sudden hysteric episode_.

“Hey Gavin,” he says out loud, “I have some people with weird dreams here.”

“Me too,” is Gavin’s slightly puzzled response. “This tiny parish where four-five people started believing the end times were upon them because of these visions they claimed to have from God. Eighteenth century.”

“Close by, too. I know that town,” Michael comments, reading over Gavin’s shoulder. "Did yours... disappear too?" 

They look at each other, Gavin nods, and Michael feels excitement bubbling up inside him. He knows they’re onto something. “Do you think they were witches, seeing things others couldn’t? Having our kind of insight?” Gavin asks.

“Only one way to find out.”

They both get up and start searching among the shelves. Rows and rows of books are pulled out - travel descriptions, diaries, church books, registers. Gavin passes on a letter written by someone who attached a note with a bent paperclip, writing their name in unreadable cursive and declaring themselves the inventor of a new technique for pyromancy. Michael feels a slight kinship at this information and sits down to read the letter in the tinted light by the table.

  _“…Suffering from bouts of sleeplessness. Tired out like crazy; kept seeing these shadows out of the corner of my eyes. Lately they’ve started to talk. I’ve been devising hexes for keeping them gone, but it’s not going so well…”_

“So what we’re experiencing has all happened before,” Michael says.

“But why?”

Again their eyes meet. Gavin bounces on his heels, up and down, before he turns on a dime and heads down a corridor. Michael doesn’t know how he knows where he’s going; maybe memory, maybe magic. In any case, he returns with a different book, and on and on it goes.

  _“…It is through the use of Magic that we arrive closer to Its Core, the very Soul of this Power, and thus the more One remains in Contact with your Gift, the more attuned One becomes, with Messages from this other World as a Result…”_

 New book.

_“…Different generations have different legends and rumors about witches to the point where one views the group as midwives and helpers and another as unhinged masters of dark and unpleasant business…”_

Then another. Then another.

_“…It seems like most of us have experienced nightmares, hallucinations – and the like… I am addressing all Gifted individuals, for the problem seems to persist and be felt across borders and practices…”_

 Peake comes back with a few more texts. Some of them are prints from online forums and message groups.

_“…The patterns in Germany seems congruent with what has been observed in Scandinavia and Russia, insofar as the covens have been in contact.”_

 Michael watches the spread of loose letters and pages in front of him. It feels and looks like a great game of solitaire, though the solution is still just out of reach and far too dependent on luck.

The texts are scattered, from all over the world, from every medium. And there _are_ patterns; what is happening to Michael is not unique. But apart from that, the texts have something else in common.

“None of them are done,” Gavin says, gesturing to all the half-finished books and unposted letters with one sweeping motion. “The books just end. The manuscripts weren’t even published.”

“People are dying and losing their minds and…Something’s off.”

Something writhes inside Michael. His gut protests. His hands start to itch. The problem does not need to lie outside, he thinks, maybe it was always…

He glances towards the table where the “ _Malleus Maleficarium”_  lies, as inviting as a cinderblock. Michael has not touched the cover, but he knows that it would feel cold in his hands.

He ignores it in favor of a different impulse.

Gavin is busy and Peake is reading a book of his own, so none of them notice as Michael slinks away.

In a far corner of the room, something is calling him.

He crouches down and finds the leather-bound tome as if he has already seen it before. The wooden box is dusty, the runes ancient. Still, it opens easily, clasps coming undone under Michael’s fingers. The cover has no title, all black, but the leather seems to tense and change.

It is heavy in Michael’s arms.

When he opens it, he feels as if he would not be able to stop the motion if he wanted to. On the first page, there is a name in ornate lettering, Arabic-looking,  _Alhazred._ And then a force beyond Michael’s control turns the pages. The writing is Greek, but there are notes and loose pages, little things written in English in the margins that could be someone’s attempt at a translation.

  _“…The terms Dark or Black Magic encompasses many arts, and its users are those descended into a State more occupied with older rites and the motions of the Earth (and, indeed, the places beyond this world and the veil) as they grow closer to the Older Beings…”_

_“…Animal sacrifice, drawing of hidden signs and the worshipping of secrets that I have not been privy to, in the name of the avatar Hastur…”_

_“... Magnum Innominandum, whose true name the Sorcerors must not speak, whose title is King, whose domain is beyond our world and whose colour is Gold…”_

He keeps reading even when he no longer understands the language, unable to look away.

His eyes scan the lines of Greek letters while footsteps come closer.

They belong to Peake, but Michael only knows this because he and Gavin converse in some distant place.

(“How are things going?”

“We’re making progress, I think,” Gavin answers. “It’s strange. There’s something drivin’ people insane, right, people with the Gift. And this happens regularly, everywhere, and it makes their brains weird.” He takes a step closer to the table, as if he desires to be closer to the light if he is to say the next words. Michael just barely see him out of the corner of his eye. “And I know that there’s something doing it. Geoff knows it, Michael knows it…”

Peake’s face is expressionless. “Okay,” he says.)

Michael can’t tell if he knows something, or knew something. If they’re all on the same proverbial page.

Michael can’t think.

There is ink in his eyes.

He tries to think the best he can despite the cloud in his head that dulls everything. The voice in his head that reads the words is not his own. He does not know how to pronounce Greek - or whatever dead language is echoing in his head now, louder and louder by the second.

The underground room feels like it will cave in.

Footsteps again. Peake places his hand on the book, forcing it down. Michael feels his hands refuse to relinquish their cramped grip, and then Peake takes the book away entirely. He glances at the cover, then up. Michael feels like he is being wordlessly admonished.

“You shouldn’t have read that,” Peake says.

Michael takes a deep breath and goes back to the light, back to Gavin, away from the book while he tries not to wonder what it was and what it meant.

 

Adam Kovic’s voice finds them even though Michael could have sworn they are far from the entrance.

“Just thought I’d tell you it’s getting late,” he yells, “If you want to get home while it’s still light outside.”

“...Maybe we should go,” Gavin says. “We’ve got more than enough to mull over.”

Michael feels borderline shaken when he nods, like he’s just about to jump of a cliff to a conclusion that’ll send him falling to the abyss. Or something.

Peake looks disapprovingly at the mess of books, but instead of saying anything, he gestures quietly. The books follow his cue and levitate to their places. Peake’s gift once again makes Michael feel a little on edge. There’s no taste or smell. Just a sense of falling.

Or maybe that’s just what happens when Gavin stops standing right there beside him and leaves for the stairs. Michael hurries after, of course, and the ascension is like leaving either the library of Alexandria or Duat, the land of the dead.

Upstairs there is still noise and laughter and living, coffee stains on the carpet, a smell of chocolate and sweat. Heads turn to look at the duo. Michael becomes suddenly aware that he is sweating. Gavin, too, actually. His shirt is all bunched up at his elbows, and there’s dust on his hands. Streaks of it in his face.

“How’d it go?” James asks, borderline yelling. He’s doing something on a computer. Michael can’t see what.

“I think it went well,” Michael says. He fake-smiles. 

James doesn’t push. He returns to what he was doing.

 

Michael and Gavin return to the outside world, to the winter and the shopping street.

It is easy to drift in and out of that place. None of the sudden attraction that made Michael drawn to Geoff’s coven. These are other people, with other Gifts and fates.

Michael looks back and sees the large windows. Empty and for sale. No sign of six people and their business, though now that Michael knows that they’re there, he thinks that he can see a faint sigil marking on the front door.

 “Hey,” Gavin says, “Do you want to drive now or…?”

“Or what?”

“I don’t know.” Gavin puts his hands in his pockets and draws his shoulders up. He seems compact now, a lot of thought and emotion squeezed into a smaller, thinner shape than it ought to be. Michael can relate. His head feels like it is about to burst. “We could just walk for a while. Buy some crap in a convenience store on the way.”

And Michael keeps turning phrases in his head, verses, words. “Fuck, yes. I want to clear my mind.”

“I feel the same,” Gavin admits. “Bloody mystery, yeah?”

Maybe, Michael thinks.

* * *

 

Gavin is a bit of a mystery too.

How can someone dislike coffee, yet have such a tolerance for energy drinks?

Gavin stands with a pack of six, bathed in neon against a backdrop of soft drinks and candy, saying that he can drink that in a day,  _easy_.

“I drink 'em, too," Michael exclaims, "But what's the difference? Why's coffee weird but _these_ are cool? ...And how are you not dead yet?”

“Well,” Gavin says, but he never gets any further before he gets distracted. “I swear, I hardly used any magic at all back there, but I feel exhausted as hell.”

“Reading is tiring,” Michael says. “I study. That’s how it works.”

“I’m buying sweets, too.”

And they put the energy drinks, two cans of beer and the  _sweets_  on the counter. It feels like a play, none of it real. The store is just a coulisse.

Gavin pays.

The first candy drop explodes in Michael’s mouth.

* * *

 

A bridge reaches across the narrow water. The concrete pillars seem too thin. Michael walks next to Gavin. The cars that pass them by are brief flashes of light in the dusk, reflected in the faux-metal cans in Gavin’s hand.

The taste of the candy mixes with the taste of the cheap beer. It's all carbon dioxide bubbles and no flavor by itself. Michael stops after half a can. He doesn’t need to be drunk, even if he can probably magic himself sober later.

They stop right at the middle of the bridge where the winds are strongest. Gavin closes his eyes, and Michael can see the shadows cast by his lashes across his cheeks. His breath hitches. Then the wind dies down, and Michael knows that it is Gavin’s doing.

They drink slowly, leaning forward over the railing. Their shoulders brush against each other. Far beneath them, the water reflects city lights and fading gold above. Michael fidgets with the tab on the beer can. 

“You’re not going to finish?” Gavin asks.

“Nah,” Michael replies, “I’m driving, too.”

 

Michael watches as Gavin pulls his jacket a little tighter around himself. When he stands like this, his shoulders and back form soft curves and angles. He steals Michael’s half-empty beer away and pauses just as his lips touch the edge of the can. Then he tips his head back and finishes it. His Adam’s apple moves as he swallows, and he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Droplets shimmer on his skin.

Michael doesn’t know why he watches.

“Is it quiet right now?” he asks.

“What?” Gavin replies.

“The voices,” Michael clarifies, “Are they…?”

Gavin shakes his head, looking at graffiti tags on the concrete handrail. A different sort of symbol. “It’s quiet.”

“Good.”

Silence. The wind howls between the pillars. Michael’s mobid thoughts suggest that today might be the day when they finally crumble, chewed through, and then the dark waters will swallow up everything.

Michael asks, “What do the voices usually tell you?”

“Nothing I can understand.”

The handrail is cold. Proper winter-cold _, I-should-have-worn-gloves_ -cold, and Gavin’s hands are pink where they, too, are holding it. Michael looks beyond the handrail and out towards what little horizon he can see. There are blinking lights out there, from ships and buoys and whatnot. Civilization colonizing even the part of the world that is in flux, subduing the soaring and falling tides. The ships don’t even need to navigate by stars anymore. They get by with GPS satellites, shortwave radio and – Michael dares to hope - a little bit of longing that still pulls at the captain. Above, the light brown smog clouds suddenly seem like the safer alternative to the stars that remind him only of the vastness of space.

“I have a question,” Michael says, his voice rough. Like he’s getting a cold. He’s not.

Gavin is silent. That alone is permission to go on.

“Have you ever actually met someone with the Gift who was past their… I don’t know. Their forties?”

A sigh. “Now that you mention it,” Gavin says, “No. Haven’t. That’s weird.” His eyes meet Michael’s. 

Michael takes a deep breath. He thinks a lot of things, conclusions dawning on him. He doesn’t like it.

“You know, the voices,” Gavin continues, “They usually don’t say anything I can understand, but the last couple of days – ever since Geoff did that thing – I’ve been able to make out words.”

“Like what?” Michael asks.

“Like  _listen_  and  _open your eyes_ and  _seek us_. That kind of thing. I don’t like it.” Gavin says it like a plain statement, nothing fragile about it, and Michael wonders if he has just gotten used to these voices by now. He doesn’t want that for anyone – but especially not for Gavin, and not now that they have so many other things to worry about.

“Fuck, I want to leave this place,” Michael says. “Let’s just go.”

“Let’s,” Gavin agrees.

Words like the ones Gavin said, beckoning, remain in Michael’s head no matter how much he tries to exorcise them with street lights and every advertisement he sees on his way to the car. The radio, even when loud, does nothing either. And Gavin’s fingers tremble a little when they turn the volume down. “Doesn’t matter,” he says. “Doesn’t help.”

* * *

 

When they are a couple miles out of the city Gavin calls Geoff on the phone, on speaker. Michael lets Geoff’s voice calm him. He misses the other man even though it isn't that long since they were last together, but it isn't a burning longing. His thoughts are racing too fast for that, overshadowing all else, even this. 

Gavin explains, slowly, what they’ve found.

People with the gift, everywhere, always, change. Turn a little darker, a little more off.

It is worse in the hills and valleys that Michael now drives through, along the jagged coast.

They disappear. 

 “Ryan told me about the native Americans here,” Geoff says, “They have tales about an evil god. And the Christian settlers said the devil was close.”

“Are you feeling smug about being right?” Michael asks.

“Not really, no.” Silence. Michael concentrates on a turn and almost doesn’t catch the next few words: “Are you okay? Both of you?”

“As good as it gets,” Gavin says, and Michael chips in with, “Same.”

“I hadn’t gone to Kovic’s myself,” Geoff says, and it sounds like just another off-handed thought. “Seemed more appropriate to learn through… divination and shit.” Michael notices a slight slur in his voice. Little pauses. He can easily imagine Geoff sitting alone on his bed, lit by his own magic lights. 

“Are you drunk?” he asks.

“I’ve had  _a_  drink,” Geoff answers.

“Can’t fault him for that,” Gavin says jokingly. "Geoff, I’ve gotten a beer, too.”

“Just… make sure you get home safe,” Geoff says. 

And Michael vows to in his head, and Gavin says they will out loud and the call ends.

 

Afterwards, they sit for a while and watch the white lines disappear. There is little other traffic. Michael starts to think that maybe it wouldn’t matter if there was a whole crowd of people, because he and Gavin would always be a little lonely. They understand things that most people don’t, and that sets them apart in that specific way that, despite how tired they are, how they aren’t quite  _close_  right now, makes Michael ask Gavin if he wants to spend the night at his place.

“I mean,” Michael says, “I could ready the couch or something. Because...” He doesn’t look at Gavin, even though that means being almost blinded by a pair of headlights coming at him. When the car has passed, Gavin finishes his sentence.

“Because neither of us really want to be alone in this. Because it’s gonna be a shitty night. Something like that?”

“Something like that.”

It will be better to have just another living being in the same space. Someone who can get up to get a glass of water in the middle of the night. Another person’s breaths and snores and motions filling in the soundscape so there is less room for scraping and teeth clicking and less time for worrying. There is nothing else in his offer but that.

Gavin takes it, saying, “Sure. Let’s pick up some more beer on the way there and get proper wasted – how about that?”

Michael exhales a breath he didn’t know he had been holding and nods.

* * *

 

The first thing Michael sees when he opens the door to his apartment is a godawful mess. Of course he had forgotten about that. Gavin doesn’t seem to care much, and maybe it’s actually better this way – more casual, less awkward. Michael makes the couch with pillows and a spare blanket draped across cushions that slope towards the middle.

Gavin gives a customary “Thank you for letting me borrow the couch.”

They discuss the movies that Michael has lying around and whether you are inferior for relying on Netflix instead of having real DVDs. And should you watch this or that director, and is that a good movie? Gavin calls them  _films_ , still, which is  funny to Michael’s tired mind for some reason. It’s all distraction.

They turn on the TV and let the late-night hosts blather on. For a while they pretend to be interested in Hollywood. Gavin has the blanket thrown over his shoulders.  The way he sits with it reminds Michael a little of the obligatory shot of the victims in Law and Order shows when they clench an orange blanket, waiting for the trauma specialist to tell them they’re OK. But no crime has been committed – except, according to the talk show host, the kind the that requires the fashion police.

Michael starts dozing off. He doesn’t want to, yet, and he doesn’t want to head off to his own bed. He’s lost all concept of what time it is. All he knows is that it is dark outside. He picks himself up from the floor, answering Gavin’s questioning look – “I’m just going to stretch my legs.”

Gavin nods.

The balcony beckons to Michael who heads there with shuffling steps, passing through the open door and the shimmering white curtains. It is absurdly small, white, paint peeling off the railing. Bare.

The air is cold against his skin, but looking up he sees the stars and that makes him forget. Sure, there are lights below too, but they don’t matter.

Not in the grand scheme of things.

He wonders why he has not noticed these constellations before. Usually he can find the north star or the big dipper, but now he cannot see either. He tries to find a bear, a snake, but there is no earthly creature up there. The blackness between the lights describes _different_ shapes, with many heads and tendrils, exposed hearts and soft matter oozing from distant nebulae. Michael holds up his hand, and his skin becomes almost transparent.

The glow of a star through the space between his bones appears to him like the circle of an eyeball.

The sky stares back. Blood vessels line the eye, and they threaten to break, quivering as Michael swallows, his spit having taken on a taste of salt and acid.

The noise of the engines on the street has stopped – it stopped long ago – and only now does he realize that the deep hum originates from somewhere else.

From the sky's mirror. 

There is a sky underground where the stars are minerals and radiant rocks. Blind animals roam there, in dead rivers and hidden lakes, and if man went there he would surely be as alien as if he was on another planet. The insight makes Michael recoil physically: He sees that world, scuttling insects and stooping reeds, feels something slippery reaching for him –

He steps back inside. Closes the door.

The air grows warmer once more. His breathing calms.

Michael looks at Gavin and sees the most worried expression he’s ever seen on his friend’s face. Wide eyes. “What were you doing?”

“Just getting some fresh air on the balcony,” Michael explains.

Gavin rises from the couch and crosses the room, grabs Michael hard by his shoulders as if he’s afraid that he will fall. “What are you  _talking_ about, Michael?!”

“Huh?”

“You - You don’t have a balcony.”

Michael looks back at the empty wall.

 “I think I need to sit down,” he says, his mouth dry.

He’s fairly sure there are still stars in his hands. He wants to fold them. It seems like he should pray to _something_. The vastness of the universe or the wonder of light that somehow makes it all the way from distant stars to his eyes. But Gavin tells him  _no, no_  in a soft and gentle voice, although he can’t hide that he is a little freaked out. He makes Michael sit on the couch and share the blanket. Body heat emanates from him, an arm draped around Michael’s shoulder, but all his touches are too light.

Michael feels drunk, but drunk on terror and adrenaline. He presses his shoulder against Gavin’s, their bodies aligned as they sit side by side. The TV is on mute. No words come from the presenter’s mouth, but Michael feels them drip from his own lips. From that black book.

“Hey, Gavin? Hey, do you know  _why_  it’s called a Gift?”

“No. I don’t know.” Gavin folds his hands. His knuckles are all red. His nails are worse off, making Michael wonder what he was trying to scratch away. Or was it Michael who did it as Gavin led him away from the window? “It’s just what it’s called. You saw back with Peake. It’s what it’s always been called, for centuries.”

“But who is it a gift from?” Michael’s heart beats a little faster. His breath hitches, and he has to struggle to control it. The couch feels hard all of a sudden. Part of him wants to stand and pace around. Get up, get going, chase another revelation. The manic impulse reminds him of what he’s felt a hundred times before when it was his anger that would carry him to move and act, only now it is different. “I think it is a gift from a god.”

Gavin puts his other hand on Michael’s knee. He looks worried, but Michael can’t tell who he is concerned for. “You don’t sound like yourself, boi.”

”Maybe not,” Michael admits, ”I, um, don’t feel like myself, either.”

“You’re saying something about the Gift.”

”Fucking… I don’t know.” Michael stares at the floor. There are beams of pale moonlight and, within them, particles of dust.  “You all made me think that the Gift was the result of the universe or my soul or the Force or something.”

“Me and Geoff and the others?”

“Yeah. I just said so.” Michael takes a deep breath, and his lungs can contain so much dust and so much light and it is still not enough. “But it originates somewhere else. I think I know, now. Something old and unspeakable and _fucked up._ ”

Gavin says, ”We really need a name for it.” Michael figures that what he means is that this is all too much to talk about and he must try to lighten the mood, make a joke. He doesn’t; he just goes on and on.

“Old Ones.”  _Stars in his body, dust in his breathe._ “Capital O’s. And we’ll all be drawn to… worshipping them, sooner or later. Cults and black magic and - do you think that’s what happens to people like us who grow old? We all become necromancers and creepy bastards and our covens turn to cults? And one day you just want to – to go find the source of it all, and you head for a place made of mist - ?”

“Shh,” Gavin says, voice low, hands halfheartedly tracing circles on Michael’s body. He is so close despite the fact that they’ve got the whole sofa to share. His hand is on Michael’s knee, and it shakes a little, so Michael covers it with his own. He does not think about it. It is almost an instinctual act. There’s a little voice in his head that tells him he  _should_ think about it - being with this other man, so close, Gavin’s face lit by the moonlight now. Pale silver reflected in his eyes, as white as his teeth when he opens his mouth. “It sounds like it’s real, all that you’re saying, but please shut up right now, okay? We can go over all of it later, tell Ryan – he’ll know what to do about it – we both need…”

“Need what?”

Gavin draws back with eyes that seem to be searching the room for something safe to look at. Not Michael. Why can’t he look at Michael? Why does Michael want to be looked at, to be the sole object of desire for those green eyes, to hold onto the hand in his –

There’s a little bit of madness writhing around in Michael’s brain, but he can see that it is in Gavin’s, too.

They both need this.

Some kind of comfort. A pull back to earth.

Michael acts, tugs at Gavin’s sleeve and pulls him into a messy kiss.

He soon loses himself in the sensation of lips meeting, separating, finding each other again. They take in each other’s teeth and tongues, the scent of skin and the way their breaths feel on each other’s faces. The sound of the kisses is the only sound at all in the apartment. Gasps, spit, sin.

And still Michael keeps going, chasing something he hardly knows what is. A spontaneous spark, another complementing color. Gripping on to Gavin’s hips, he brings them closer. Gavin’s hands are everywhere, brushing against Michael’s bare skin beneath his t-shirt, cupping his face, as if he is in a hurry to touch him in all the ways he has been imagining in the limited time they have,  _quick, quick, before the madness passes. Learn what it feels like to be this close, do it fast_. Michael feels Gavin’s throat under his lips, his pulse, the _life_ in him.

It tastes like skin but feels like heaven, and then Michael needs to breathe, and as he pulls back he starts to consider what he’s done.

There’s fire in him again, but the only thing that deserves burning here is himself.

Somehow he made it this far without really causing himself too many problems, but now – now he _fucked up,_ and it is almost painful to acknowledge it _._  So soon, too.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck._

Gavin moves away to the far end of the couch with a plain sorry expression.

“Why did we just…?” he asks, voice shaky. “That wasn’t meant to happen.”

“No,” Michael answers.  _But it had to_ , he realizes. After spending the whole day together. After he had been blind to all of Gavin's little tells. “Don’t move all the way over there, Gav.”

“Why shouldn’t I? We just- we just kissed, Michael, and you’re dating my best friend and I’ve just cocked up-“ Gavin sits with his back up against the arm rest, legs sprawled ungracefully across the space between him and Michael.

“I know, I know.” Michael repeats the words, and now  _he_  is the one calming  _Gavin_  down. He stretches out his hand, and Gavin waits before he takes it. His palms are sweaty. Michael pulls him up, and they do not sit close. There is air between them, and they know they won’t cross it, but both are side by side again. “I fucked up.”

“Will you tell Geoff?”

Michael can’t formulate an answer at first. “…I - I mean I _have to_ , right? I’m not a coward.” He stands on shaky legs and thinks,  _like it isn’t going to haunt us anyway_.

Gavin mutters, ”Maybe  _I_  am.”

“No, you’re not. Not in the morning.”

Gavin folds in on himself, making it clear to Michael that he needs to go. Body language speaks louder than words.

Michael feels torn as he leaves, the blanket trailing behind him. He wants to go back.

He wants Gavin – not distraught like this, but like earlier when he was laughing at Michael’s jokes, pulling him along, trusting him and seeing potential that Michael himself sometimes has a hard time noticing.

The only problem is that wanting Gavin means that Michael is greedy, greedy, greedy – he wants Geoff too, he  _has_  Geoff. And still it’s difficult to find his phone, too difficult. He leaves it on the floor. Vows to call tomorrow.

Yet despite these thoughts he manages to sleep. Perhaps it is the draw of the dreamworld that makes him nod off, finally, in his own bed as he listens to Gavin’s footsteps in the other room.

Only one thought circulates in his head and in the white lymph in brain and limbs:  _I kissed Gavin, I did it, I did it-_

 


	15. An Intermission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The R&R Connection and not a lot of plot. Next update next weekend, if exams dont ruin my schedule...

The man who opens the gate wears a cowboy hat pulled down in the front and moves with a lightness to his step that Ryan envies. He hides the borrowed – or stolen – key away in a pocket, patting it once for safety’s sake.

Ryan greets him with a simple, “Good morning, Jeremy.”

Jeremy nods in response, and there’s a flash of pearly white as he smiles. “Ryan. And Ray, isn’t it?”

Ray, almost hiding behind Ryan, says something that could be “Yo.” It is hard to hear when he hides his face in his hoodie. Ryan can’t blame him: The wind is brisk and far too wintery for his taste. It carries withered leaves with it. 

There are many dead plants in the graveyard.

Jeremy clears his throat. “Nice to see you in real life again.“

“It is,” Ryan agrees, smiling like a… Well, like a necromancer in a cemetery. “How are things? Still rapping things that shouldn’t be rapped?”

“Absolutely. Someday,” Jeremy adds, fake megalomania in his voice, “Someday, you’ll all see. It's a valid way to cast spells.”

“Ray probably agrees with you," Ryan says. "Is it getting lonely out here?” 

Jeremy puts his hands in his pockets.  “Eh. Maybe. I’ve actually thought about going down to your coven. It’d just be-“

“Nice to be among your own kind.” Ryan looks around, seeing the years written on the graves.

“Mhm.”

“I think we need older plots.”

“It’s all old,” Jeremy says, waving Ryan and Ray along. The gravel crunches underneath his feet before it gives way to unkempt grass.

Ryan surveys the landscape around them as they walk. He does not know this area, but he remembers all the flatlands they drove through to get here. Strangely, he finds himself surrounded by hills that have stood as quiet guardians above the gravesite for centuries. No wind has managed to whittle them down: Trees have grown and plants have spread wherever they could find space to make foothold. Whenever the trees have been cut down, descendants have simply taken up their spot. Many of the older graves lie nestled between roots or covered in wild growths. Many are unmarked, and for this reason the people who know the place dare to call it ancient. Ryan wagers it is somewhat younger than that.

Once he would have come here alone. The only human contact would have been fading inscriptions and carved faces, and wandering between them he would eventually have settled down at a grave. (He knows he’d get sentimental.  He’d feel very small in the shadow of these hills).

Now, Ray decides where they stop. And for some reason, he tries to scale one of the overgrown, Gothic mausoleums and falls on his ass halfway up. He lands with a light thud, sprawled out on the grass – “Shit,” he gasps, and then he laughs at himself and Ryan's reaction. The laughter does not seem misplaced. It belongs, as the shape of his body does, everywhere between the heavy stone. Ryan admires how Ray can rest in himself, untouched by stress and graveyard-gloom. Once he gets up, he resumes his attempt at parkour-like climbing.  

“That’s almost disrespecting the dead,” Ryan comments, distracted by the backpack he is going through.

“And necromancy isn’t?” Ray responds.

“Not if you do it _right_.”

Their guide takes a step forward, and Ryan becomes a touch worried about whether he’s about to be judged. But Jeremy just leans in to see what Ryan finds.

With a triumphant “A-ha!” Ryan withdraws a smaller bag – not plastic, but soft hide, a leather cord keeping it shut. He upends it to let small white bones roll in his palm. There is a single tooth among them, bloodless and glossy. Ray gives up and sits down in the grass, and used to his companion’s habits, he does not comment. Instead, he plucks pale clovers from the ground and tears the leaves into pieces. 

This grave – one of many Ryan intends to investigate today - is raised, and though the flowers are long dead on the top, the pictures and inscriptions on the marble sides are still readable. _Here sleeps a beloved daughter and wife_. A date shows that she went to sleep more than two hundred years ago. Most importantly, there is a symbol in the corner that confirms once and for all that this is the right place in a way that the church books couldn’t. Jeremy helps, too.

“The people around here remember,” he says, “She was a witch.”

Ray’s mouth moves almost completely silently. He crushes herbs in his left hand. Myrrh and dill weed. A spell he and Ryan have done before. It makes them not quite invisible, but close enough - anyone who happens to come by will be inclined to overlook them. Their gazes will move quickly on. Not that Ryan thinks it is likely that anyone will show up. Nobody came in the half-hour that it took them to find this grave.

Jeremy slinks into the background. Observing.

Ryan kneels down and starts drawing a chalk circle, placing candles and counting finger bones, doing it all very carefully. In the middle, he places ash and paper covered in inscriptions. Rubbing his right hand, sore from writing all of last night, he focuses. Finds that place of perfect clarity he needs.  

“ _Mors ad mortem_ ,” he says, “ _Ossum ad ossum_. Come back from where you lie resting.” And crooking his head, in a gentler kind of voice, he adds, “I wish to speak with you.”

A ripple moves through the world. At once the air grows colder and goosebumps form on Ryan’s arms, across his shoulders, to the back of his neck.

Necromancy is not as difficult as some people believe.

Yes, there are a lot of formalities to remember, the right greetings, the latin chants, and yes, sometimes the spirits are mad and angry shades. Sometimes they protest, sometimes they come willingly. But Ryan enjoys knowing that he can makes them come at all - that he is capable of keeping the delicate balance between gentleness and forcefulness needed to bring them to the world of the living. With practice crossing the border is easy, and the movements grow natural. 

The only problem is that long second where a part of you is dead.

A cloud covers up the sun, and a smell of dust spreads as if the grave was about to burst open. Instead a wisp of smoke rises from the tiles, moving at first like a snake across the dew-covered ground, then like a crawling creature. Limbs form slowly, resembling a bulky child more than any woman. Transparent, it rears a faceless head.  It waits, mimicking Ryan’s stance, but clasping its hands in front of itself. It shivers and shakes, and with each convulsion more loose strands start to look like hair, and more curves and angles start to reveal a human form that still collapses before it can be anywhere near correctly proportioned. The ghost does not faze Ryan. He double-checks that it is safely within its holding circle, and then his eyes dart to Ray whose hands are full of half-frozen clovers.

Ray nods towards the spirit in a _shouldn’t-you-be-taking-care-of-that-_ kind of gesture.

So Ryan speaks again. He says her name, and the ghost nods – this movement is slow and graceful.

Grateful, even.  

He asks questions about the past. Did her and her equals hear voices, have dreams, wish to walk into the woods? She says _yes_ and speaks of hushed tones and one long night where they sacrificed blood and thought they were giving it to the devil. How their powers grew. She whispers the last words. _The stake._

The ghost sinks back towards the ground, something like a sigh escaping it.

Ryan lets the spell go, savoring the peculiar cold that sits in his bones after such a summoning. He lets out a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding, and energy stops flowing from that secret source within him. It is easy, like cutting a string. 

Ray stands up, brushing dirt off of his pants. “That went well,” he says, “How many more?”

“Four.”

Jeremy raises an eyebrow. “You can handle that much?”

“I’m good at this,” Ryan says. He sets out walking, Ray by his side.

Ray sighs. “Tired?”

“Not really. Lately, I just feel like…  I _used_ to have a life outside of magic and you. That was the whole reason I ever bothered with the paint.” Ryan gestures to his face. Painting it is a ritual he has performed in front of his bathroom mirror and in his car an equal amount of times. Lately, it has become rushed or forgotten entirely. “It used to be a double life.”

“We appreciate it, though,” Ray says.

“Do you keep thinking about it, too? All this... lately?”

“What?”

“The corruption,” Ryan states. “Everything feels tainted. They way you sleep, the spells you cast-”

“It’s not that bad.”

Ryan puts his hands in his pockets. Ray could be right, but Ryan keeps sensing a subtle hint of _wrongness_ in the earth beneath his feet, stronger in some places, weaker in others. Not in his own spells, but in the intent behind them. He could go awry, he thinks, could easily turn down the wrong road …

But he won’t. He knows that when Ray watches him speak to another spirit. When the smoke billows about him. His hands and lips are never idle. He is a reminder of all the things Ryan likes about the warmth of houses and the voices of friends.

And Ryan has another reason to hope - he picked it up because he sensed purity in the middle of a park. He found an acorn, and he keeps it in his pocket. He does not know what it is, only that it feels magical and purposeful. A reminder that not everything is a sign of evil Old Ones coming.

He listens to spirits talking about _animals, omens, gifts from below_ and _it will wake up soon._ These whispers are kinder, like soft lace across the surface of his mind instead of the nails and teeth of the eldritch voices.  

He dismisses the last remnants of lost lives with a wave, though their voices linger.

_A deep gorge in the woods. I fell._

_I saw God._

_It was the darkest night, and I knew no sun was coming._

Jeremy stands off to the side, still just watching. Ryan doesn’t mind the audience. He lets his arms fall theatrically.

“Back to the drawing board?” Ray asks.

"Yep. Listening to what they had done, I've got some ideas for a spell that might work. I feel like we’re getting closer. ”

“Closer to _death_ , too.” Ray crouches down to pick up a half-melted candle. The three of them collect the rest of the implements together. This is menial work, wiping away the chalk and coal so that the graveyard still appears undisturbed. “RIP.”

Ryan does not know whether Ray is referring to the man in the grave or them.

"You're a downer today. Not that I don't get why-"

“Okay, that was _one_ downer moment. _Besides that_ , I’m actually more positive than you give me credit for,” Ray says. “…I found a four leaf clover in the grass.”

When Ryan stands up again, the plastic bag of bones safe in his hands, he sees the clover tucked away behind Ray’s ear. “Nice.”

“Yeah,” Ray says.

They head back towards the entrance. The grass appears silver and blue in the distance.

Ryan traces the withered leaves that sprout from the acorn in his pocket. He stopped it from rotting. Ray raises an eyebrow, wordlessly demanding to see what Ryan is fiddling with. “I was looking for soil for the ritual. I had been thinking about this… spreading corruption for a while, yeah? All the creepy stuff.”

“As you do,” Jeremy cuts in.

“This felt pure. One thing touched by magic but completely untainted.”

“That’s lucky, too.” Ray skips over a hole in the path.

 “I’m not sure I get it,” Jeremy says. “But good for you. I might come visit soon. I… I want to join up.”

“You’re not going to miss being on your own?” Ray asks.

Jeremy raises an eyebrow. “Miss it?”

"There's freedom. And alone, you don’t get wrapped up in this kind of… existential horror-movie shit.”

“Maybe.” Jeremy looks to Ryan, who still does his best to exclude an aura of safety and optimistic expectation. “But _being among one’s_ own – that’s more than worth giving that up for.”

Ryan holds the gate open for him. The metal is very cold against his bare hands. He shivers a little, then follows Ray outside. 

“Besides, it seems you’re handling everything all right,” Jeremy points out.

Ryan shrugs. “I guess we’re just that lucky.” He makes eye contact with Ray and adds, “We’re making a stop on the way home, by the way.”

“OK.”

“…And I don’t think you’re going to like it.”


	16. Cascade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Robert W. Chambers references: the chapter.

Michael sleeps.

His dreams are full of yesterday. He smells dust and gets distracted by bright and colored lights, words in Arabic written by a mad author resounding around him.  These dreams give way, slowly, to something not of his own mind’s making.

Michael wanders along the old lake Hali where eyestalks stir under milky water.

Surrounded by white mist, empty skies and scallop-like flesh it is easy to imagine that the waking world is nothing – just a shell that keeps all of _this_ at bay. This world breathes, and its exhalation takes the shape of billowing smoke and shadows that Michael’s mind interprets as monsters.

They’re getting closer.

* * *

When he wakes up, the mantra that sticks in his head is not a spell from the now-fading dream-world – it is simple English.

_I kissed Gavin._

Michael lies exposed to the cool air, his duvet lost on the floor.

He picks up his phone to see the time and catches a glimpse of his own reflection: utterly disheveled, eyes unfocused, and his movements are unsteady when he swipes the lock screen away.

It is 9:06 AM.

 

He walks into the kitchen in his socks. The door is half-open.

On the other side, he sees Gavin. At once, too many emotions rise inside him: regret, doubts, love – and a tired resignation that feels foreign. It presses from his stomach up to his lungs and prompts him to watch, undiscovered.  

With a glass of water in his hand, Gavin stands by the sink and stares out at a dead street. Michael can see the touch of a hangover on him, how he's unshaved and half-awake. Still, he is  – and Michael can at least admit this much now – beautiful.

Gavin, walking on bare feet, the t-shirt loose on his body, revealing his stomach and the trail of hair to his navel when he stretches his arms. He opens his mouth in a yawn– and Michael knows how those pink lips _feel,_ now.Last night is not a half-forgotten episode, but a pulsing memory right behind his eyes. He keeps staring. 

Gavin, who looks so light - like he could run away at any time. (Or is fly a better word?)

Gavin notices that Michael is watching. He puts the glass of water away and draws himself together until he is on guard, leaning against the fridge. His shoulders and elbows form sharp angles, deep shadows at his collar bones, nothing soft about him now. 

Michael asks if he’s staying for coffee - or breakfast, maybe. Anything at all. 

Gavin mutters something like, “I have to go.”

 

Michael is back in bed by 9:30.

He can hear Gavin leaving even if it sounds like it is happening to someone else. There are footsteps and quiet, absentminded humming that suddenly ceases when Gavin remembers where he is. Rustling as he picks up his jacket. Doors that open and close.

And below all these noises that Gavin makes as he gathers his belongings, Michael can almost hear the sea. Gavin’s gift, the feel of him, permeates everything. He, too, has become so terribly important.

Part of Michael wants to run out of his room and open the door and ask Gavin why he's leaving so quickly. But then again, he also feels like he knows already. After all, another part of him wants to stay in his bed, because it's easier when he does not have to _look_ at Gavin. Whenever he sees the other man’s smile or face or just the way he holds himself, Michael stumbles upon new details that intrigue him and make it that much harder to deal with the fact the he ought to forget last night.

Thinking about solutions is like trying to replant a fucking cactus. All he wants to do is salvage this little, vivid thing, but he keeps getting thorns in his hands. He must recoil again and again.

The front door closes.

 

It is 9:50, and Michael types the three words out on his phone.

 _I kissed Gavin._ He finds Geoff’s contact, the G with the little diamond emoticon after it because it felt weird and sappy, at the time, to put a heart.

After the message is sent, he shoves the phone down on the floor and under the bed - out of sight, out of mind. As if that will change anything. The house is empty, and all there is left to do is wait. He keeps twisting his hands, knowing that he is on the edge of summoning flames. 

Because he thinks about Gavin.

Of course he does.

 

At 10:15 Michael checks his phone. No response.

He finds himself hoping that Geoff won’t call. Maybe that will be easier. If he hears Geoff’s voice, he’ll hear disappointment. Or maybe Geoff will be self-satisfied, in a sad sort of way, because he’ll feel that he predicted this turn of events. It’ll support him in deciding that Michael is too young, and that he does not know what he wants yet, and probably other things, too.

It’s kind of true. At least right now, Michael does not know what he wants. Nor does he know what he wants to find when he looks at his phone, staring at the screen.

 

10:18 – A message.

_“good morning to you too."_

                      “… _do you want to elaborate ?”_

_“was it romantic?”_

Michael types his answer out faster than he thought he would.

_“I don’t even fucking know”_

_“But I thought I’d tell you”_

_“i'm glad you did"_

_“do you want to talk?”_

_“If you do then yeah I guess”_

For a preposterously long time, Michael stares at the three _still-typing_ -dots.

_““I think “_

_“Maybe I understand”_

That, to Michael, is almost as confusing as the things he saw on the not-balcony. As the things that followed after. How can Geoff _understand_ so far removed from the moment where it happened?

                      “a _re you just lying around feeling bad about it?”_

                      “ _cmon, answer again”_

_“ cause you shouldn’t do that”_

But it’s hard to write a response.

 “Okay,” Michael whispers to himself, “Get it over with, dick.” The light from his phone hurts his eyes. He can’t hear his heart, but it must beat slow. His brain is pulling in thoughts like drift nets, but everything gets through the masks.

He writes “ _ok”_. Pauses. And then, " _Ok its been a rough morning though”_

_“can i come see you?”_

Michael lays his head back.

Then, slowly. Letter by letter.

_“Fine”_

_“I’m not running away from this."_

_"We’ll talk.”_

No more messages after that. Michael waits with a sense that both of them have really just communicated _around_ each other. There is almost something childlike in his refusal to do as Geoff wants; he continues to lie around feeling bad about it. It is the easiest thing to do, in this case.

He just has to apologize, and they can move on, and he can ignore Gavin.

That will work out fine.

(It feels a bit like déjà vu as he tries to convince himself about these things. Already, he’s tried once, and now he knows that he is setting himself up for disappointment. Doesn’t mean he won’t try, of course, but he tries like one who knows he is doomed from the start).

* * *

 

So this is it – and now that Michael stands here on his own doorstep, Geoff approaching from the road, it doesn’t feel that big after all.

_Might as well get it over with._

Geoff is dressed for weather a couple degrees colder than reality, although that’s cold enough by itself. His scarf is all bundled up around his neck, the knot a hastily tied lump. He does not try to go inside, instead pointing back over his shoulder with outstretched thumb, the gesture revealing the hole in his glove.

“So… Do you want to go for a walk?” he asks. “You sounded like you could use some fresh air. It’s cold as dicks, not going to lie…“

Michael nods. He already has his jacket on, glad that the collar covers his neck – though he doesn’t know if he has any marks. Thinking back, he doesn’t believe there had been enough time for Gavin to make any, but then again… Time was weird then, and he doesn’t feel he can trust his own memories. He licks his lips and immediately feels them getting dry again as the air seeks out the moisture.

Geoff clears his throat. “I don’t really know what you’re waiting for me to say…”

 _Me neither_ , Michael thinks.

“It’s a nice morning,” Geoff continues.

Michael sticks his hands into his pockets and falls in step, the door falling shut behind him. “Is it?”

Geoff exhales, and his breath is visible. He has his hands in his pockets, too, but Michael keeps seeing his arms twitch, like he actually yearns to reach out. There is something generally panic-y about him, the way he stands. He's talking too fast, but in a way that suggests he isn't saying what weights on his mind. “I’m sorry for rushing over.”

“It’s kind of early.”

“In the day, sure. Or do you mean, like, in our _relationship_?”

“Both? It sounds weird if you put it that way, though.” Michael looks up at the sun knowing that it’ll be reflected in his eyes, knowing it would have distracted Geoff at any other time: “So… Yeah. Kissed Gavin. I guess the question is if it’s cheating.”

“It’s a question of how it feels, right? It’s not… cool, I have to admit that, but...” Geoff looks away, as if it’ll soften the blow.

“It feels a hell of a lot like it if you ask me,” Michael says, and he has to tsop himself form launching into a description of how it wasn’t just _any_ kiss, but one that felt intimate and _right_. “And it’s just me to blame, and I’m…”

“Worried?”

“Mad.”

“…At who?”

“Me!” Michael rolls his eyes at himself – _there we go, a nice, mature discussion already_.  “For gambling with the one thing I _have_ that I really, really want, okay?.” Michael bites his lip. “Even though it _was_ just a spur of the moment thing. I wasn’t really myself.”

“You were drunk.” Geoff says. He looks concerned, and that makes Michael’s breath shaky. Again with the pity. He has no doubt Geoff can see all the raging self-hate. Literally, because it must be all over his aura.

Michael says, “I had had a beer _._ Told you ‘bout it - but it wasn’t that.”

They pass a woman walking her dog. The animal pulls and strains against the leash and the woman furrows her brows and purses her tiny mouth, at the mercy of her pet. On Michael’s other side, rose bushes wither away in a thirty-inch space between two buildings where somebody dropped off a flower pot. The plant bends into spirals. The petals are long gone, trod into the asphalt. Michael finds it easier to look down.

“Yeah, what _was ‘_ it’?” Geoff asks, and a moment later he clarifies – “Not just the kiss. It sounds like your whole night was messed up after we talked in the car-“

“I wasn’t myself.”

 _I was more._  

They’re walking away from the city, which is good. It’s best if there is nobody else who can overhear them. Michael knows he is going to sound insane.

“You said something about books that can harm you, once,” he hears himself saying, as if his body is acting of his own accord. “While me and Gavin were detectiving-”

“You didn’t-“

“I found one.”

Geoff gives an exasperated sigh.

It occurs to Michael that there are only two possibilities right now – well, three if he counts turning and walking away, but he’s not doing that.

Not with Geoff in his coat in the brittle morning sun there beside him.

He can talk about the kiss in detail or he can talk about the library, and the black leather, and the stars in his hands. He chooses the latter - the words force themselves out. 

He describes the library like it is a body dissected. He shows Geoff the individual parts: the people, the hallways, the room itself. He digs into the meat of the memory and retrieves titles of books and loose passages that summarize what he and Gavin learnt. In the daylight, the thought of their magic being fundamentally _wrong_ is no easier to bear, although the source of the problem – the Old Ones, the dark creatures, whatever-the-fuck – feels further away. He dares to go into the details he left out last night. 

“Gavin’s hearing the voices say creepy shit about wanting him to _worship_.” Michael swallows. “Something’s not right with the Gift. Did you-”

“Know? I know now, that’s for certain.” They leave the last grey buildings behind them, a shortcut bringing them closer to windblown fields. Geoff’s scarf comes undone. A single gust loosens the knot enough for the whole garment to flutter down, and although Geoff catches it, the metaphorical damage is done.

The tattoos that sit just below his collar bones are reaching up, winding their way to his throat. His skin is covered in movement, twitching and twining growths. He covers it up soon enough, perhaps embarrassed by the pure emotion they betray, but Michael doesn’t forget what he’s seen. He knows that Geoff’s hands would look much the same under the gloves. They’d be made of moving ink. 

For a moment, Michael believes that somehow, neither of them think about whatever relationship they are keeping afloat. Their thoughts are with other worries far grander in scale and yet less important in the long run.

“ _When it wakes the waves will rise_ ,” Geoff mutters, and Michael understands that the words are not his own, but belong to a different tongue learned long ago. “ _And alack, I doubt the Prophets' Paradise were empty as the hollow of one's hand..."_ He shakes his head, his voice calmer when he speaks again. "Bad things happen if we just… let things be. I didn’t know _enough_ , that’s for sure.”

“I want to punch the Old One or whatever,” Michael says. "I'd punch it good."

“Fuck, I'm with you,” Geoff says. “But you couldn’t yesterday.”

“I was _hallucinating_.”

“Fair excuse.”

Michael takes his hands out of his pockets and feels the wind between his outstretched fingers. “…I think I’m fucked in the head, like, if I’m to be a hundred percent honest.”

“Gavin would say that you were just _off your rocker_ or _a bit blunged in the head_ or something like that… Should I not mention him or…?” Geoff’s brows furrow. “Maybe we should get back to that British problem.”

_Get it over with._

“…OK.” Michael takes a deep breath. “So. Gavin was with me, last night. _That’s_ how it happened. I was hallucinating and he told me what was real. And… We more or less made out. It wasn’t just one kiss, it was five minutes or so. I didn’t think about going further than that, but… _He_ was real, and nothing was, not really, and…” It is still so fresh in Michael’s mind that he can easily recall the feel of Gavin’s hands on his lower back and the taste of his mouth. Despite everything, it is a good memory, still. Even if he can’t put it into words.

Michael looks expectantly to Geoff, who admires a bird in flight. Not far away the fields are flat and empty. Wordlessly, they head there, walking along unused and overgrown train-tracks. Here, too, the grass is withered, leaving it the same color as the metal they cover. Then Geoff stops.

Michael stands up straight. It doesn’t seem right to hear something serious if he doesn’t look serious about it himself.

“Don’t get me wrong. It’s not… great, but I think I get it,” Geoff says.

Michael doesn’t. “What the hell does that _mean?”_

Geoff speaks fast, like he’s afraid he’ll never get these things said otherwise. “I- I know Gavin. Know what he’s _like._ I’ve known him for literal _years_ , and it’s not as if I haven’t had… You know...“

“Gay thoughts about your best friend?”

“ _Eh_... Just… Sometimes you hang out and joke around and you think that maybe, he's just a  _little bit_ serious. Maybe even without him knowing. And maybe you're a bit too happy about it and... “

“Have you ever actually done anything with him though?” Michael asks.

“No,” Geoff says.  “And I won’t, Michael, ‘cause I’ve got you and you’re – you’re _everything_ right now. I think I’m getting at the fact that these things… happen, espicially with Gavin, and if you’re already out of your mind I understand why you’d kiss.” He looks like saying the word _kiss_ makes everything final. “And I know you’re going to beat yourself up about it, ‘cause your first response to everything seems to be getting angry, but…”

Michael walks a little faster, a little lighter. “Does understanding mean that you…” _Forgive_ is such a strong word, making the crime seem worse. “…That you don’t mind?”

“…That might’ve been what I was trying to say. Kind of.”

They go on in silence beside sleeping fields. The air is sweeter, easier to breathe. And then, above them, the sky changes. A few pale stars still shine from beyond the white clouds, barely visible and joined by the moon.

As Michael watches, their shine intensifies before they start to fade.

One by one, the blink out.

Michael feels his breath get stuck in his throat and hears a strained gasp that tells him Geoff must feel the same. They both stop. Geoff’s hand is around Michael’s.

The wind blows past them, headed straight for the trees, the plastic bags on the ground and the open fields.

Michael’s hands start to itch, but he does not allow himself to react to it. Instead he keeps gazing skyward as the lights diminish. The moon, the pupil in the white and blue, looks down on him. Then it, too, fades out.

The sky is an empty plane.

Michael turns his back to it. It is almost funny how it isn’t the weirdest thing he’s seen, not by a far shot.

He wants away from all the watching eyes of the world. There’s a sanctuary beyond the stones and trees of Geoff’s garden, behind the untrimmed hedges. The days have stopped mattering; Sunday or not he needs those walls around him, now, and he realizes he’s always felt safe by Geoff’s side.

He makes eye contact with his…

“Are we… calling each other boyfriends?” Michael asks. “I mean, we’re…”

“Still doing this.”

“Going steady.” And Michael smiles, because so far it’s not steady _at all_ , and Geoff gets the joke like Michael had known he would.

* * *

 

When they come to the garden the front door is open, and behind it a small crowd is waiting for them. Michael pauses with one foot on the steps and looks up at Ryan’s painted face and Gavin’s gentle eyes. Something like that. God knows what adjective fits that particular look, because Gavin looks like he has a pretty good idea about all the emotions Michael has gone through during the last hours.

Gavin says, “I think the world is ending.”

“No,” Ryan replies. He doesn't look upset at all. Or maybe the paint just masks it. 

“No? Rye, the stars are going out." Gavin gestures up to the empty sky. 

“Nobody else is seeing this," Ryan says. "It’s always only us.”

 “Sod off, and go back to being productive.”

“That’s harsh.” Ryan shakes his head, withdrawing back inside.

Gavin turns to Michael and moves aside - “Come in, boy.”

Michael breathes easier once he is through the doorway, under a roof, and he counts the coats. Four, plus his, and soon after Geoff’s as well. All of them are here.  He is not even sure if today is a Sunday; if this was a result of some message he didn’t get or some too-convenient coincidence. He decides not to dwell on it. Gavin is right beside him, looking relaxed in a way that has to be at least partly an act.

There’s a fundamental difference, Michael thinks, between meeting adversity with anger and pretending it doesn’t exist.

When Geoff enters the room, they all look to him. Jack, from his corner, arms crossed and flannel shirt inside-out; Ryan with his dark eyes accentuated by the dark circles beneath them. Gavin, on the other side of the room from Michael, and Ray sitting on the table, playing with the charger cable in his hands. Geoff’s sleeves are bunched up at his elbows, and the black of his tattoos stands out as he leans forward into the light. (Now, he must have calmed himself. The tattoos stay where they are). The sight is what makes Michael fall a little bit in love all over again. 

“So,” Geoff says, “It looks a lot like we’re kind of fucked, doesn’t it?”

“Unless we start appeasing eldritch abominations or… whatever,” Gavin says, “We’re not doing that, are we? Because I did _not_ sign up for joining a cult or going off my rocker.”

Michael and Geoff exchange a glance. Geoff continues, “Ryan figured we could – well, we can’t _kill_ the source of our powers, but maybe we could use our powers _against_ it. Lull it into a deeper sleep. _Bind_ it in some way.”

“Obviously, one person can’t do it,” Ryan cuts in, “But six people could work. Slim chance, but maybe.”

“Why hasn’t somebody else done it before, then?” Michael asks, “If there’s a way to bind this eldritch _thing_ , then why do people with the Gift keep getting influenced by it anyway?”

Ryan shrugs. “Madness, maybe?”

“Or they couldn’t trust each other,” Jack suggests. “Covens might just have dissolved before they could learn about the danger or before they could do something about it.“

Ryan raises an eyebrow. “If it is possible. Maybe there will be more madness the further down the road you get, and eventually…” There is something about the way he says the word _madness_ that brings startling images to Michael’s mind. Cultic robes and blood running down steps, the thought that Ryan might be capable of doing _bad things_ to the rest of them. “But it’s worth a try, isn’t it?”

"Or maybe nobody else have done it because they just weren't us!" Geoff says. "It's worth a hell of a try."

Despite these statements, hopeful as they are, it is profoundly difficult to summon up the right, positive tone of voice. To hope. The room is colder; Michael suppresses a slight shiver. 

There is a kind of silence between them that rears its head when everyone knows what they must do, but are still trying to think of another way, finding nothing and refusing to be the first to say it out loud. Michael has goosebumps, and when he looks into Geoff’s eyes he sees plans: lulling the force beneath back into an empty, black sleep or making some barrier hoisted by tree roots. And plans for a drink later.

Gavin pulls up a book from Peake’s distant library. He flips through it and shows a spread of pages – circles within circles, runes. A description of a ritual to ward away evil and misfortune. Michael follows his train of thought – if they can make the spell sufficiently powerful, it could work.

* * *

They have tea, but Geoff drinks coffee anyway, even though it’s late **; Gavin** keeps staring at things he shouldn’t stare at. Like Michael’s lips. Geoff’s hands – the twitching of a star and the slightest of shivers along the petals of a flower. He closes his eyes when he laughs, reminded of the truth that they are friends despite it all. That seems incredibly valuable to him when Geoff hands him the paper with its headlines about the storm. He can feel the little creases Geoff’s grip has made.

He leans back and hears Michael swear after borrowing Ray’s game. Everything is still worth it just to have this friendship, despite the unspeakable at the core of it.

There is nothing more to be said about magic, now. No more experiments except that one big gamble they just planned. They set a date, and Michael was so proud at himself for remembering that full moons are best for white magic, suggesting this, and Gavin found the date on his phone.

Outside the moon is growing fuller. When they part ways, it is the only witness. The neighbours have better things to do than linger by the windows.

There are still no stars in the sky, but they all know that it is not a physical event: the clouds of gas have not disappeared. Gavin’s scientific mind finds comfort in this. It is only something they _see_ , the kind of omen that might once have made priests and seers gather in courtyards and take note. Kings would have acted because of the signs. Nobody is going to listen to _their_ council now.

Gavin looks down at the footsteps in the frost. Two shadows join his own. While he was distracted Michael and Geoff became the only ones left with him; now they stand on either side. They must be able to feel his mood in his aura, changing the wild associations into something more fearful and uncertain. He has no way of knowing what will happen. Neither in regard to the stars, nor with Geoff and Michael.

He’s got to keep status quo. What else can he do?

As he looks to the sky again, he feels something graze against his wrist. He knows the touch of Michael’s cold fingertips. They head lower, to his palm, so light it is like a feather trailing along his skin. Gavin turns his head – not to Michael, but to Geoff, who blinks and almost nods, acceptance in his slow movements.

Michael’s hand is so close to holding Gavin’s.

It should be good, and if not that, it should be _enough_.

He hears Michael breathe in and then moves away from his touch–

“What are you doing, Michael?!”

Michael gives no answer – _has_ no answer, Gavin realizes - and retracts his hand as if burned. He exchanges glances with Geoff, giving Gavin the impression that there is some conversation he has not heard and cannot be let in on. Immediately, he regrets opening his _stupid_ mouth, because now he misses the feeling of Michael’s hand and the possibilities that were opening up – terrifying possibilities, but it was better to have them than to have this hopelessness instead. He can’t steal Michael away, and he can’t  - _they_ can’t all –

“Were you…” Gavin says, failing to finish the sentence.

The void above swallows words.

Geoff looks like he has something stuck in his throat. He coughs twice, harsh sounds in the awkward silence, covering his mouth with his hand. Gavin knows him well enough to prepare himself for bad news. But when Geoff speaks, Gavin doesn’t know what to do with what he says.

“Maybe we could figure something out.”

Gavin feels caught between the two others, pressed up in a metaphorical corner. “What do you mean?”

“I… You’re attracted to me,” Michael says. The fact sounds so strange out of his mouth. “And Geoff and I talked, and - We’re all tangled up in each other.” His voice comes from behind Gavin, like from an unseen devil on his shoulder. “Maybe we don’t have to keep wanting what we can’t have. Is that what you mean, Geoff?”

Again an almost-nod, like Geoff is scared to commit.

So Michael speaks again.

“Don’t you want to know what it’s like?”

Gavin huffs, a white cloud forming in front of his face. “You can’t be bloody serious.” And as soon as the words have left his mouth, Michael freezes up. Gavin can practically _see_ him swearing at himself inside his head.  “You basically got together yesterday!”

“Gavin-“ Geoff begins, but Gavin cuts him off.  

“You can’t be three bloody people in a relationship and expect it to work! Or, I mean, It's - it’s just going to get fucked up, because we’re…”

The two people he adores so much look at each other and deserve to be happy. They _are_ happy, together just the two of them, and any other constellation would be fragile. 

Adrenaline courses through Gavin. He wasn't expecting this, never, and - 

_I’m afraid of ruining you._

He can’t love either of them anything less than fully, completely. He’d take and take and take.

"I don't know what to do," he says. "We can just do nothing."

He sees Michael and Geoff take a step back. It must be their fear and nerves driving this decision to approach Gavin. By the sound of it, neither of them have thought it through. They'll calm down and get to their senses. 

“I’ll get going,” Gavin says, even though leaving hurts him like there’s a fishing hook in his heart. He is out of breath. Fitting, because heading home feels like running a marathon, the finish line a bed full of oblivion that never really comes. 

* * *

It’s just 10:04 in the evening.

Not even that late. 

Voices, voices, voices.

Their suggestions are utopias. Ways of being together, the magic number three. Somehow having Michael’s laughter and Geoff’s smile at once. Knowing what both of them feel like, taste like, sound like walking on cold floors the morning after.

He wants, and is still too scared to dare get it.

Oh, they call him stupid, but he is just cautious enough.

Cautious, still, as he checks his phone, not breathing normally just yet.

 _I don’t know either_ , Michael writes, _I don’t know what to do about it._

 


	17. Comfort

“I don’t know what to do with these.”

“They’re flowers, Michael,” Geoff replies sardonically. “You put them in water."

Michael grips the small bouquet a bit tighter. It's not red roses, but a mess of vibrant greens and yellows. Not a grand gesture, but a cheap little thing, which he likes because...

“Does my apartment look like it contains a vase?” He gestures towards the clothes strewn on his floor and the dishes in the sink. His whole apartment looks embarrassingly like it belongs to a teenager instead of a young man. There are just more important things to do than cleaning, and as soon as he doesn't have the flowers in his hands he'll try to fix it - magically, if he must. But right now, there's a mess. 

Geoff clicks his tongue, pacing another few steps from the main room into the kitchen. “Point taken. But you know, I like it anyway.”

“‘Cause it’s mine?”

“Because now I know what to get you next time I need a gift. A nice vase.”

Michael closes one cabinet door and opens another. Maybe a bowl will do. “If it’s one of those shitty novelty things, I might punch you,” he says jokingly.

“Domestic violence is no joke.”

“Domestic,” Michael repeats. “Yeah.” That is what they are, or try to be, isn’t it? Geoff leans against a kitchen counter, watching Michael arrange the flowers as well as he can in a bowl. “...Why don't we just go now?”

“We could do that.” 

* * *

 

Being alone with Geoff like this still feels like a new thing. Magic practice is no longer an excuse between them, so all they have is each other and the knowledge that they’re both here just to be together. It’s better when Geoff doesn’t think he has to play teacher. He allows himself to shut up more often and let an easy silence settle, occasionally broken as they discuss the music or the news on the radio. The fifteen-minute drive is an exploration of shared interests: TV-shows, games and movies. MIchael listens as Geoff bemoans how hard it is to watch anything with Gavin who loses interest too quickly and then gets pissy if you watch on without him, but that is all they say about Gavin. Not because they’re avoiding the subject - that doesn’t seem to be quite it - but because there is so much else they’ve never had time to talk about.

In the bright white aisles of the supermarket, everything is almost too normal. Again and again MIchael finds himself caught by the thought that the people with the trolley carts buying soft drinks and toast don’t even know that their world is on the edge of violent, magical ruin.

Geoff meanders to the spice shelves and picks out rosemary and basil.

“It doesn’t feel as authentic when it’s all crushed up,” he mumbles, “but it’s better than nothing.”

A chill runs down Michael’s spine, but he forgets it entirely when, on his way to the checkout, he sees little electric tea lights all the way down by the floor.

He buys two.

As soon as they’re outside he presses one into Geoff’s hand, saying, “There, now you don’t have to worry about the price of candles again."

Geoff takes it, a snake coiling around his finger, as black as the asphalt they stand on.

“Just don’t lose it.”

 

 

* * *

The recoil is like a hit to Michael’s arm, travelling up his shoulder and echoing through his ribcage.  A mistake in his posture results in his air getting knocked out of him, but the sensation is just _good_. Frustration and worry leaves him along with the oxygen.

There is a fresh blush on Lindsay’s cheeks, and her red hair whips around her head as she turns to face him. Her mouth moves, and Michael takes the unpleasant orange ear muffs off.

“That looked like it hurt,” she says. After a judging glance towards the end of the range, she adds, “You suck at this.”

“The target wasn’t-“

“Doesn’t matter if it’s on crooked. You can still _hit_ it-“

“I hit it!”

“Once.” Her eyes have a spark to them. Michael looks around the shooting range instead of making eye contact. They’ve got it all to themselves: An empty hall of wood, metal and walls as beige and bronze as the splinters on the unswept floor. Trevor sits on a wooden bench by the wall, Lindsay and Michael being the only ones at the bay. The target comes closer, electricity buzzing around it.

“Let’s see you do better,” Michael says.

Lindsay smiles. “Prepare to get outclassed.”

“Woo,” Trevor adds without a single hint of excitement.

The ear muffs come on again as Lindsay sends a new target down the range. She aims and presses the trigger down without a moment’s hesitation, relying on a mix of instinct and reflexes rather than precision to hit bullseye. Michael considers trying the same approach – he’d have his sixth sense to guide him - but he had promised himself that there would be no magic here. He has to save his energy. Besides, it would be the worst kind of cheating. Lindsay deserves better than that, even if she _is_ being incredibly smug about her skills as she pushes Michael’s ear muffs down and shows him a sheet of cardboard with six perfect bullet holes.

“…That actually _is_ better,” Michael says.

“Told you so.” Lindsay places her hands on her hips and turn away – “Hey, Trevor! You wanna have a go?”

Trevor does, and he fidgets for ages with the target, the line and the controls to send it down. When the targetzooms away, the rattling echoes. Michael steps back, inhaling the scent of sweat and metal. Watching. Afterwards, they stand by the bay and compare results and Trevor asks, “Isn’t it a kind of morbid thing to do?”

“Chill. It’s not like we’re practicing to shoot _people_ ,” Lindsay says, “It’s just round targets.”

“It’s sport,” Michael repeats. “I think it’s fun, Lindsay.”

The next round, he does better. All his shots hit the target, two strafing the outermost circle, the rest safely towards the center.

He gets used to the feeling of the gun in his hands, too – the recoil, the way his fingers grow sweaty around the grip. The slight resistance of the trigger as he presses it one last time. It reminds him of how he feels when he has fire and curses at the tip of his tongue. The same kind of safety.

When he lowers the weapon, Lindsay counts his score, but he can’t hear her. With the hearing protection still on, the world is soundless, and in this silence - he thinks.

There are monsters out there in the world. His fear makes his grip tighten. Maybe he ought to be armed.

The moment he makes the decision, his heart beats faster and it takes all his focus to slow his breathing and stop it from being noticeable. But even though he has time to reconsider, he doesn’t change his mind.

They compare points and he beats Trevor. He likes the attention, but the praise doesn’t really register. 

Lindsay asks him to place her unloaded gun in her bag while she cleans up.

Michael doesn’t really know _how_ he’s going to steal it, but nobody and nothing, especially not this shooting range, can tell him what to do.

 _It’s a small thing,_ Michael tells himself. Not something that matters in the long run.

Maybe he can kill his anxiety like this. 

He sees a glimpse of one of those monstrous shapes dissolving into rags and dead flesh, and that soothes him. Just the idea that they might be killable, and, by extension, that the Old God might be too. Is it hubris or just normal pride that makes him think that he can fight these things?

Somewhere in the building, a spark moves between two electrical wires.

Which is unsettling, because Michael just _considered_ the option of starting a fire, but his mental state allows for little control of these kinds of impulses. His magic has its own idea about what to do.

The fire alarm is fucking loud.

Lindsay does not look scared at all. It’s mostly just annoyance on her face as she rolls her eyes.

Trevor is less calm, leaping to his feet and looking from the blinking exit sign to his friends, raising his voice – “Shouldn’t we be getting out?”

“I think that’s a good idea,” Lindsay says. “In an orderly manner.” She glances around, looking for something, but Michael hurries towards the door to draw her gaze.

“We don’t have time for that, Lindsay,” he says, “We gotta get out.”

And it’s not like she doesn’t understand the gravity of the situation, so she follows Trevor out and down the hall. Michael is at the very back. He has his bag with him, and he can feel the weight of it. Heavier than before. He can only hear half his footsteps between the wails of the siren and the panicking voices coming from other hallways and the rooms behind the walls.

They escape into the sunlight along with a few other confused men and women, all looking for smoke on the sky. Michael doesn’t know if he has started a fire or just made enough sparks to set the alarm off; he hopes it’s the latter. That hope might make the difference.

Out here, with the cool air, panic subsides.

Trevor wipes a little sweat off of his forehead. “At least everyone’s okay,” he says optimistically.

They stand for about ten minutes longer. The sirens do not abate, and a man in a uniform goes to stand in front of the entrance doors.

Michael and Lindsay exchange looks, and Lindsay crosses her arms. “That’s annoying.”

Even when the beeping stops, the man does not move.

“I don’t think they think it’s safe yet…” Trevor says. 

“Maybe we should call it a day?” Michael suggests. “Hang out somewhere else? I mean, it beats standing around in a parking lot.”

“It does,” Lindsay agrees. “Yeah, okay. Fuck it. I’ll come back tomorrow and check to see if the whole place is burned down.”

And if there’s ever a problem with the missing gun, it can be explained away. It got lost, what with the chaos and confusion.

Michael repeats the thought that it’s not a big deal.

_After all, it’s not like I was practicing to shoot people._

* * *

The moon will be full tomorrow. Michael thinks of a simpler time when he was waiting for the next weekend or the end of a shift, not the phases of the moon and the placement of the stars. He watches his own fingers move, summoning magic in careless experimentation.

Putting the gun out in plain sight on the dresser makes it all feel so real. Adrenaline surges through him. Woe to the internet that runs too slow or the screen that stops working while he’s this full of energy. He wants the leap, looks forward to it, even as he is afraid of the risk.

Because there is a risk, and a fear that he doesn’t verbalize. The fear that made him steal a weapon in the first place, because you don’t prepare to defend yourself like this if there isn’t an enemy that you know is stronger than you.

His heartbeat comes from somewhere below his chest, wrapped up in all his organs so that the rhythm of it reverberates through his entire body. He is afraid… But not really because of the too-real possibility that he’ll actually end up getting _hurt_ , or going insane, or whatever else might occur in the unknown they are going to breach. He summons a light that gives off heat and presses it closer to his body, letting it be the only bright thing in his dark room. Its glow is reflected by a singular crystal strung on a leather cord, and Michael turns to see the amulet lying on his bedside table. Geoff’s. The one he fixed.

He is afraid of wasting his life and his chances. 

Now, when he thinks of Gavin flinching away and Geoff saying, almost _regretfully,_ that he never kissed Gavin, Michael thinks only of could-be’s.

He wants to know what it would be like to have them all be together, one thing, even if just for half an hour. A few minutes without inhibitions. The idea comes from sleeplessness and the lack of morals afforded by the dark, but it has its hooks in him. His body and mind is not enough to face the monster tomorrow. Him _alone_ is not enough. He’s too small there in the darkness, needs someone else by him.

He finds his phone and spends a moment deliberating. Then he makes a decision the same way he’s made too many others:

Without thinking, he presses the call button. 

“Where are you?” he asks, and Geoff responds with the sound of movie gunfire in the background.

“Gavin’s place. Getting a beer. Just relaxing before tomorrow.” Geoff's voice is tense and tight. 

 _Distracting yourself, making time pass_.

Michael pauses. "You're just hanging out?"

"He wanted a friend over."

"Can you ask him if I can come - I mean -"

"I'm not mediating this," Geoff interrupts. "Just come over if you want. I think that's better."

"And you'll stand by that?" Michael asks. 

"You know where he lives, right?"

* * *

A movie is paused. A facial expression freezes and a plane doesn’t crash. Gavin, sitting cross-legged with too-big socks on and a blanket draped across his slumped shoulders, turns to look at Michael when he approaches. “Hey,” he says. “Why’re you here?”

“I…” Michael says. “Just wanted to come over.” And then the real reason:  “Tomorrow’s the day.”

“Sure is,” Geoff says. He’s on the couch, too, all dressed down. Michael feels a little like he’s intruding. And then like the walls of Gavin’s apartment are bending slightly inwards. The pins in the cork board threaten to fall to the floor. All the postcards, dated years back, are close to an avalanche-like fall. The rooms smells like it has been too long since someone opened the window, but Michael knows that he soon won’t notice. After a while it is all just dust and heat, the feathers in the duvet and last night’s coffee growing cold in the windowsill.

The shadows are long in the short hallway, but in the living room, the light is obnoxiously yellow. A better word might be _den_ or _nest_ , something animal-like. Gavin leans back, and his watch reflects the light. His phone is on his lap, equally bright; tacky gold-colored sunglasses on the table, some coins on the couch cushion. He lies like a jay surrounded by things that seem like treasure, and yet he does not even look at all the glittering objects.

He looks at Michael and asks, “Don’t want to wait it out alone?”

“Sure. Something like that…” ‘Michael can’t tell if Gavin is nervous or just surprised at his arrival. _He’d_ be nervous, in Gavin’s position, neither really here nor there in the romantic quagmire they’ve waded into. He doesn’t try to keep the conversation going. He sits down so that he and Gavin have Geoff between them.

The movie starts again, and Michael leans against Geoff. If Gavin is weirded out by it, he does not let it show. In fact, he’s sitting pretty close and looks at ease, legs stretched out. The light from the TV flickers over his empty hands, the little spaces between his fingers where Michael’s own might fit.

Michael looks down. The ghastly cats on the blanket look right back up at him. Geoff must have brought it with him for some unfathomable reason.

There is a ritual in his mind, explained to him by Ryan and Ray. They had made a terrifying tag team for the delivery of that information: Ryan had been subtly intense about it in ways he shouldn’t have been, and Ray had been far too calm. Michael remembers what they said nonetheless. He remembers it the same way he remembers facts for an exam - through a mixture of brute memorization and stressful thinking. In his left pocket, he has a scrap of paper that Ryan wrote, a latin spell. In his right is Geoff’s amulet.

Geoff divides his attention more or less evenly between Michael and the screen. Michael senses some apprehension – either because of tomorrow or because Gavin is _right there_. He touches Geoff’s hand, and it unfolds. Michael imagines he can feel Geoff’s pulse. His thumb moves along rough skin as a car chase unfolds.

On the other side of the room, Gavin sighs.

Michael pretends not to notice. Just to break the silence, he asks Geoff, “Are you nervous about tomorrow?”

Geoff shrugs in a way that is meant to look like he doesn’t care, but his hand clenches a little around Michael's, and he doesn’t look that sure at all. “Ugh. I don’t wanna think about it.”

“It’s not like there’s much else we _can_ do, is there?” Gavin asks. “Other than what we’re doing.”

“No,” Geoff answers.

Michael absentmindedly lets his free hand  follow the seam of his jeans. He watches the TV screen, not the movie. He doesn’t understand what is happening, having been thrust into the middle of it without context or explanation. So instead of the low music and voices, he listens to Geoff’s breaths and the way Gavin taps his feet against the floor and his fingers against the sofa.

“Don’t you think it could be dangerous?” Michael asks.

Gavin looks at him as if actually considering the question. Michael had made up his mind easily: of course there’d be danger. There had always been danger whenever he used his Gift. He’s always close to catching fire. Gavin doesn't have that experience - he nods, but slowly, as an afterthought. “It might be,” he replies. “…Are _you_ scared, Michael?”

The way he pronounces Michael’s name is a distraction that he has to work past. It sounds so nice because it makes him think of Gavin saying it in the morning or in between fits of laughter, in an easier, better time. “A little,” Michael admits, surprised at himself. But if he couldn’t show fear here, then where?

Geoff draws Michael closer, but gives little comfort. “Won't lie - It’s not going to be pleasant.”

“Does that mean, like, _death_ -unpleasant or _kind-of-buggered_ -unpleasant?” Gavin asks.

“I think the problem is that we don’t know.” Geoff sighs, frustration in his voice. “You could still not come with. Maybe it _is_ something that’ll kill us. Maybe we can’t do a damn thing about it. Who knows.”

Gavin pulls himself up until he is standing, glancing down briefly. “I don’t _like_ not knowing.”

“It fucking sucks,” Michael agrees.

“Do you want a coke or anything?”

Michael shakes his head and watches Gavin leave them for the kitchen anyway. The cupboards open and close. Gavin’s footsteps are too familiar, and Michael gets the distinct thought that he and Geoff feel the same yearning as they listen. Geoff turns to look at him, dark circles beneath eyes with a certain light in them. The look is enough to convince Michael that the feelings Geoff might have for Gavin in no way lessens how much he wants Michael, too.

It also convinces Michael that sitting here, they both feel kind of lonely together.

Geoff’s hand comes to rest on Michael’s neck, and Michael starts to trace the other man's seams instead of his own, fingers trailing up the side of a t-shirt. Just until Gavin comes back. 

“Remember what you asked?” Geoff says.

“What?”

“ _Don’t you want to know what it’s like?”_

“I meant it,” Michael says, “I mean, I’m not fucking unreasonable here. I’ll settle, whatever, but I’m  - I’m curious.”

“You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t.”

Michael makes eye contact, a sense of urgency taking hold of him. His voice falls to a whisper without him really noticing. “It doesn’t have to be planned, it doesn’t have to be a big _thing_ , can’t we just _try-“_

The door to the fridge closes, and Michael hears it even though it feels like the kitchen is miles away. Michael pulls away as Gavin enters the room with a bottle of beer in a loose grip. He stops, standing in front of his guests and looks at them, at what they have, and Michael has just a faint idea of what goes on in his head.

“What were you talking about?” Gavin asks. He leans back against the wall, drawing one knee up. It is clear that he has forgotten about the movie. From the way he takes his first swig of beer, it is clear that he is drinking to get drunk now.

“You,” Geoff says. He leans forward with a sudden movement, eyes clear and words precise. “We were talking about you, actually. You asked Michael before, but what about you – are _you_ scared?”

“Of what?” Gavin says, gesticulating with the bottle, making its contents slosh dangerously around. “Of the _bloody_ _abomination_ that gave us magic and is gonna drive us all _insane_? Of our _great_ plan to just somehow magically put it to sleep or something? Of the fact that you left _death_ open as a possibility? I think being a little afraid is _bloody normal_ , Geoff, but it's… it’s...”

“It's  _what?!_ ” Michael asks, but his words go unnoticed. Gavin has wide eyes, subtly shaky hands.

“I wasn’t asking about tomorrow,” Geoff says softly, and Gavin nods.

“I know. The weirdest thing is - tomorrow isn’t the thing I’m most afraid of.” He looks down, at Michael and Geoff, and places his bottle on the table. “It’s _this_. Us, me, you.”

Michael loves him even now, anxious and loud, with stains on his shirt, underscored by discordant, triumphant music as the credits roll. After the credits, there will be blackness, and after this moment…

“Take the chance,” Geoff says.

“What does that _mean?”_ Gavin asks. “Just have a fucking threesome and pretend there aren’t a million things that could go wrong?”

This makes Geoff get to his feet in one brash motion. “It’s not about sex, Gavin,” he says, voice a little louder. “It’s about us not pretending we don’t have these feelings for each other. We need to stop dancing around it.”

Michael wants to intervene, but he gets the feeling that what is seeing is the culmination of something older than his involvement. Gavin and Geoff’s relationship was there before he was. Their eye contact communicates things he doesn’t understand.

“Let’s _try,”_ Geoff continues. “See what it’s like. As if there wasn’t anything after tomorrow.”

_‘Cause there might not be._

Gavin looks away, out the window.

Michael wonders if he sees stars.

Then Gavin does a one-eighty, grabs Geoff by the collar and forces him into a kiss that is almost violent: there are years of pent up frustration mixed up with the anger of the moment and somehow, out of that, love. Geoff eases up in the moment, his whole body changing to a softer stance. Michael wonders how long he has shouldered a weight that Gavin is now relieving him of. His hands cover Gavin's thumbs drawing small soothing circles. He lets Gavin push and pull, just taking it, answering at a slower pace. 

Even after the kiss, when Gavin gasps for breath, he does not let go of Geoff’s collar. He takes a deep breath. Green eyes dart to Michael's. 

Watching does not feel voyeuristic: Michael knows, somehow, that he’s really just waiting for the moment when Gavin reaches for him. There's an outstretched hand as Gavin says, “C’mere, boi.”

Michael takes it.

He takes it and is with the two people he loves more than anything, and of course the hug is awkward. They have uneven heights and shoulders and arms that don’t reach as far they would’ve liked. Gavin’s lips are on Michael’s within moments, still tasting like beer, and Geoff’s hand is on his jaw and all of it is _right_. It is Gavin who ends up in the middle where he moves (like waves) back and forth, and Michael twines his fingers into Gavin’s t-shirt right at the small of his back where he can feel the dampness of nervous sweat.

They stand so close, swaying a little together, arms interlocked. For a long moment none of them move. Michael dares to believe they all think the same. They think of never letting go, because everything else and all that comes after this is unknown and unpredictable. Only the _now_  is real and tangible. The three of them, together. The feeling of breath on skin, the way Gavin’s hair brushes against Michael's cheek when he buries his face in the crook of his neck. 

Michael breathes deeply, inhaling familiar scents. Gavin must be able to feel the expansion of his chest and the way his pulse quickens.

And Gavin looks up with something new on his face, like it’s the first time he allows himself to truly take his guard down in front of Michael.

“Fuck, I love you both,” Geoff murmurs, his fingers digging into Michael's shoulder blades. It almost hurts.

Gavin’s face lights up in this _smile_ that must be everything that is good and worth protecting, and he seizes both Michael and Geoff’s hands, one in each of his own. “Look at us,” he says. “Bloody fools rushing in, all of us.”

Michael replies with a smile. “Yeah. It’s great.”

“Stay here tonight. The both of you, just – just don’t go.”

_Stay and drown out the voices. Stay and keep the nightmares away. Stay because otherwise I'll doubt this was real._

Michael knows the feeling, and he knows that if he stays here, he’ll sleep so much better. So he nods, and Geoff does the same.

“And this is what we’re doing,” Gavin says. “This… Three-person _thing_. Just tonight?”

“I don’t know,” Michael says. “For however long we fucking feel like, right?”

Gavin licks his lips, his eyes wide. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. If you’re both…”

Geoff takes a step back, nodding. 

“...I don’t think I noticed the entire last half of the film,” Gavin says.

“Me neither,” Geoff says. “Want to rewind and try again?”

“That’d be nice.”

 

This time, Gavin fills Michael in on the plot before they hit start. His voice is excited, and he gesticulates wildly with one hand – the other remains securely in Michael’s grasp. He leans against Geoff, too, like he has to keep touching them or they'll stop being real. So it's still not really _easy_ to be together, but it’s much, much better than before.

The three of them are enough to fill the entire room with warmth and laughter. Michael looks at the way Gavin’s t-shirt rides up when he leans back, and the moment no longer feels stolen. He touches the amulet in his pocket. It’s an accident. He just wanted his phone so he could check the time, but now he stares at the little crystal. Made by Geoff, mended by him.

Michael lays a hand on Gavin’s arm just as the credits roll once more, and this time he feels compassion with the characters on the screen as they fade away. When Gavin looks at him, still kind of disbelieving what he sees, Michael hands him the amulet.

“I’d like you to have it,” he says. “It’s not anything _special_ , but it’s lucky. Uh. I think.”

“It didn’t bring you much luck or what?” Gavin asks.

Michael shrugs. “It brought me here.”

Gavin slips it onto his wrist and stares at it for a moment. The string is a little flossed and burned at the edges. Worn in all the right ways. He says, “Thank you” and turns his hand. The crystal catches the light. “I’m keeping it on tomorrow, just in case.”

Pride swells up inside Michael. He _fixed_ that bracelet, and he fixed this. The thought remains the whole evening out.

 

He fixed it all up so that he’s glad despite tomorrow.

 

Glad as he stares into the bathroom mirror – of course Gavin would have one like this, way too big and stained by toothpaste. There's room for imagining Gavin's mornings here. Michael borrows an extra toothbrush, but he stops in the middle of a movement with the toothpaste in one hand. and just – stares. At the three of them, Gavin brushing his teeth and Geoff removing his worn and washed-out sweater so only the thin black undershirt remains. It’s all so mundane.

So different from all the magic, the life-and-death situation and the cryptic dreams and still, this is far more captivating. Just getting ready for bed, without caring about stupid impressions and flirting. They’re a little past that. Geoff’s hand is on the curve of Michael’s lower back, and Gavin eases him away so he can spit into the sink.  

They’re laughing at Gavin’s too-tiny bed and joking that the only real problem they’ll face is the discussion about which of them should sleep on the floor.

“I know I have an air mattress around here _somewhere_ ,” Gavin says.

“I have seen no evidence of any such thing,” Geoff replies, “…Is it just somewhere in your mess?”

“They get awfully small when all the air’s out of them.” Gavin crosses his arms. “Give me ten minutes. I’ll just look through the closet.”

And thirty minutes later, there’s a blue mattress inflating on the floor next to Gavin’s own bed. Michael likes Gavin’s room. Here the mess seems more appropriate; inviting, almost. When the floor is already covered in scattered papers and discarded clothing, he doesn’t feel bad about adding his own socks to the mess.

There is a small blue light coming from the laptop on the desk. Coffee cups suggest long nights, while carefully organized bills suggest work that Michael knows little about.

On the very top shelf of a cluttered bookcase, there is a heavy, dark shape.

It is unmistakably an old fashioned witch’s hat. It’s all bent, almost comical, making Michael halfway expect cobwebs and cat hairs underneath. He stands on his toes to reach it, and it tips into his hands.

“What’s this?” he asks, showing it to Gavin who scratches his beginning beard, a faint blush creeping onto his face.

“It’s something old,” he says. “Just a stupid old hat.”

“How old are we talking?”

“Um… Years.”

Geoff reaches in and takes the hat from Michael’s hands. He runs his fingers along the edge of the brim. “Don’t tell me…”

Gavin crosses his arms. “I, um, I bought it just after we met, Geoff.”

Geoff looks fondly down, the memory apparently a pleasant one. “Because you were so-“

“Happy about being what I was. Am. I was stupid-happy. Didn’t even use the bloody thing.”

“Put it on,” Michael demands.

“What?”

“Put in on,” he repeats. “C’mon.”

“I’ll look daft,” Gavin says, but he is already at the mercy of Geoff who presses the hat down on his head. He yelps and then pulls it down by the brim. For a moment his face is in shadow. When he looks up, Michael sees a smile on his lips. Gavin watches their reflection in the window. “Halloween already, huh?“

“You should totally wear this for Halloween,” Michael says. Implicitly, there’s the idea that they’re going to be around for Halloween – and all that follows, too. “Or hell, just normally. You’re a witch. Own it.”

“I look daft,” Gavin says. “Don’t you think…?””

 

"Really," Michael says. "It's not half bad."

Gavin pulls the hat off and hands it over - “You wear it, Michael.”

It’s surprisingly heavy for something that looks like it came from a halloween-sale at a dollar store. After Michael puts it on, he looks at himself in – not the mirror, but in the night, in the window pane. He does not see himself, but someone older and rougher at the edges. He sees the person who appeared in his mind when Geoff first told him he had magic: so fairy tale-like, so odd. It’s a stupid halloween costume that shouldn’t mean as much as it does, but nevertheless…

“ _Gryffindor,_ ” Geoff announces, doing his best impression of a sorting hat - which only results in a shrill kind of voice that sounds more comical than he probably intended. Gavin jabs him playfully with his elbow.

“You think I’d be a Gryffindor?” Michael asks.

“They're the brave guys, right?"

“Correct. I’ll take it.” Michael takes off the hat, holding it in his hands for a moment, breathing the dust. Then he hands it back to Gavin and sees it return to the shelf. “You could be a Slytherin, Gavin. Geoff's definetely a hufflepuff.”

“Is that an insult? I can barely remember my Harry Potter,” Gavin says.

“You're supposed to be British, Gavin, get with the program," Michael jokes. "I don’t think it's an insult. I mean, they're kind of the villains, but there are good sides to them, too. We could watch the movies sometime.”

“Maybe.” Gavin halfway sits, halfway falls down on his bed, legs dangling over the sides so that his toes barely touch the floor. “How about we haul my mattress down, too? Put it next to the air mattress. Then we’re all on the floor.”

“Let’s do it,” Michael says. “Lend a hand, Geoff?”

Geoff raises an eyebrow. “What do you need me for?”

Michael rolls his eyes. The mattress looks heavy and hard to move, and it’d be easier if he didn’t have to haul it himself – then he understands. With a smile on his face he stretches out his hand, grasps nothing, and draws back. He concentrates on the sudden movement, visualizes how the object in front of him will fall. He draws a simple symbol, an arrow, for good measure. “Get out of the way, Gav.”

The mattress moves away from the bed frame in a jerk that threatens to upend the bedside table, but it makes it down safely. Or maybe one of the others save Gavin’s little lamp and the stack of dream journals. Regardless, Gavin looks a lot more pleased when he sinks down on it again, and soon they are all going to bed, distributing blankets and pillows.

Gavin takes his own mattress – Michael hadn’t expected otherwise. Then, while Michael is in the bathroom, Geoff takes the air mattress. Soon, he sits with a blanket covering him from the waist down and his hair in a state of profound dishevelment. Michael stands there in boxers and t-shirt. A little part of him can’t fathom that it actually got to this. The three of them so close this late. The one question he has to ask is: “So… Where do I go? Am I just supposed to go lie in between your or what?”

“If you want,” Gavin says, rolling over so that there is just enough space for Michael in between him and Geoff. Laying there, unfortunately, means lying between the two mattresses as well, meaning that there’s an uneven edge right by Michael's spine.

He tries to adjust himself, shifting from side to side. The blanket and the pillow both have a different smell from what he’s used to, even though he isn’t sure what he wants it to smell like. He ends up on his back. The world looks different from the floor. The walls are full of new shapes: bulky stacks of books, a hoodie hanging over the back of a chair that just barely looks like a ghost when Michael squints. Outside, there is no dead garden or empty street. Just the sky and the heavy white moon.

“Ah, fuck it,” Michael declares. “This is hurting my spine. I’m gonna have to cuddle someone.” He locks eyes with Gavin. Lying on his side, he manages to get his arms around the other man. It takes a lot of rustling and moving around. For a second he pauses just because the sensation is so _new_.

Gavin, whose _hand_ he was afraid to touch earlier in the day, now has his legs thoroughly entwined with Michael’s. He is in Michael’s arms. His lips part in a wry smile, and he says, “Okay.”

At the same time, Michael feels a hand on his back. Geoff’s voice is teasing. “Already abandoning me?”

Michael feels a shiver travelling up his spine. Maybe his eyes convey this when he looks over his shoulder.

Geoff looks happy, but his smile fades. “It was just a joke, Michael.”

“I know.”

Gavin tugs him closer, allowing Michael to share his pillow. It doesn't really feel permanent, so Michael tells himself to focus on tonight. Even if this isn't lasting, he'll have this. 

Geoff lies down, the sheets rustling. He gives a content sigh when he is done moving around. “Today has been a weird day,” he states.

Michael does not know how to respond. He wants to express something, but he doesn’t have the words.

Gavin speaks instead. “Tomorrow’s probably going to be weirder, isn’t it?” He exhales softly, and Michael can feel his breath on his skin, along his shoulder. Gavin isn’t looking him in the eye. He is looking a little above and a little behind Michael, at the wall on the other side of the room or some part of the ceiling paradoxically more interesting than the rest. “We could still… fuck,” he adds. The last word is barely audible.

“As in, you’re talking about sex?” Michael asks. “I mean, I…” He moves his hand. The closeness of their bodies suddenly feels like it is almost too much. “I feel like this is enough. Right now.”

What he doesn’t say, but still thinks, is that he doesn’t want too much movement, and he doesn’t want to be above these covers. Just being enveloped in this heat, resting with Gavin in his arms is fine. A moment of peace after and before the chaos. 

“I thought,” Gavin begins, “That I’d be a lot worse. You know - sexually frustrated or something. While I was watching you from the outside. Now it’s not as important because you’re…” _close, and here, and not leaving_. Michael can imagine the unsaid words. “But I want to know what it’s like.”

Rustling again, as Geoff supports himself on one elbow. “We can wait,” he offers. “We can do whatever on the other side of this whole ritual. There’s no need to _rush_.”

Gavin looks up at Michael. It seems, for just a fraction of a second, like he has the full moon in his eyes.

“Yeah,” Michael repeats. He licks his lips. They feel so dry all of a sudden. “We’re just going to have to promise each other there’ll be a day after tomorrow where we don’t give up on this.”

Gavin closes his eyes and leans in again. “Who’s giving up on anything?” he asks.

Silence settles between them, more comfortable than before now that the question no longer hangs overhead. Once again, Geoff makes preparations to sleep. Outside, a cloud covers the moon and makes everything a little darker. The walls settle, creaking around them.

Then Gavin raises his voice again. “How would it work, though?”

“How would what work?” Michael asks, a little annoyed.

“Well, you know. The sex. How would it work?”

Geoff groans. “Am I going to have to give you the talk?”

“It’s just when there’s – you know. Three of us,” Gavin continues.

“You’re just digging your hole deeper,” Michael comments. “No pun intended or whatever.”

“So. There’s another reason to wait,” Geoff adds dryly, “We need to give Gavin enough time to figure out where the dicks go.”

“Oh, shut it,” Gavin says, “I’m going to sleep.”

“…Sweet dreams, then,” Geoff says. And despite the fact that he was just teasing, he now sounds sincere. He leans over to mess up Gavin’s hair and touch Michael’s shoulder; small comforting touches that let Michael drift off so much quicker and easier.

And from Gavin, whose breathing is growing more and more even and slow, he hears a muffled, “You too, love.”

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

They all go into the woods.

This is not a statement, but a premonition. A thought held, for a moment, in something analogous to a brain in something analogous to a living being. 

The thought was discarded long ago. Forgotten. What damage could six humans do?

* * *

They walk briskly, branches breaking underneath their feet. A line of five silhouettes making their way deeper in between the trees. Ryan is up ahead, and they have no intentions of letting him wait.

Michael enjoys finally being able to _do_ something about the shadows he sees out of the corner of his eye.

Gavin looks like he has it worse, but his problem remains auditory. He looks from side to side, searching for the source of a sound that nobody else hears. Then he bites back a sigh or a swear. Sometimes he even looks like he’ll apologize, but he never does. They don’t need any reminder of their situation.

The woods do enough on their own.

 

“Do you want to know what I dreamt last night?”

Both Michael and Geoff ask, in unison,“What?”

“And was it bad?” Michael elaborates.

“It wasn’t a bad dream, or a magic dream, even,” Gavin says. “It was just a dream. We were standing on a beach.”

 

This time, there is no mist or threatening darkness. It is surprisingly light. Shades of white and gray as far as the eye can see. Michael has never noticed that there are so many birches. For a while they follow a trail that is almost comforting in its normalcy, made by dogs and the people who walk them on Sundays. Then comes the inevitable moment when Geoff declares that they have to go off the beaten path.

 

“It wasn’t a nice beach or anything. It was kind of windy, ‘bout a million rocks instead of sand and kelp all over. The foam was yellow, like it had been stormy out at sea. The water was cold. I never touched it, but I knew, you know, like you do in dreams. It was cold, and that was why we were standing there just lookin’ at it. I think I knew Jack and Ryan and somebody else were there, too, but way back behind a hill.”

 

Still no shadows, but more ferns and mosses. More water, in the river and on the leaves; wilderness slowly encroaching. By now Michael knows that it is weird for Jack to walk through the brush like this, not even once observing the herbs or asking questions. The tension is getting to him, too.

Michael is just glad that he can look at Gavin walking beside him or Geoff a little up ahead and not feel regret.

 

“It was nice, just looking at the sky and the water. Then, Michael, you waded right out into it. You were wearing little stupid shorts for some reason - even more stupid ‘cause they were _my_ shorts, the salmon ones I have in my closet, and I don’t think it’s realistic that you should have those, and I almost remembered it was a dream-”

“Go on.”

“You walked right into the water and it got all warm. Warm enough for swimming. You just used your magic and made the whole ocean warmer, which was really nice of you.”

 

Brittle light between the treetops.

Each footstep is starting to sound heavier. Drumming and beating the ground. A drumming beneath the ground.

 

“Really nice, and also impossible.”

“So did we swim?” Michael asks.

“No.” Gavin shakes his head. “I woke up.”

 

Michael’s sixth sense is telling him to leave. With Jack and Ray just behind him, he does not take Gavin’s hand, but he wants to.

Later, he reminds himself, there’ll be time for hand-holding.

He gets lost in thought and trying to discern what he feels and what his sixth sense is making him believe, in telling the birds apart from the visions, and he follows Geoff. Trusts that this will lead him safely to the old stone circle, the center of everything.

This time Michael does not waver when he sees the tall figure in between the trees. It is Ryan, surrounded by some kind of faint haze. His face is all black and white, skull-like; he has a knife in his hand. He is not frightening. His shoulders are relaxed, his movements slow and precise as he draws on the ground. As Michael comes closer, he begins to see the individual symbols. Ryan waves. The paint on his fingers is brownish-red.

“What is...?” Gavin asks.

“Don’t freak out,” Ryan says. “He was dead when I bought him.” With his thumb he points towards a bulky shape at the edge of the clearing.

Michael swallows.

“That's Edgar,” Ryan adds.

The cow is very dead, but not decaying. The size of it is incredible, even when it lies still in the grass with its legs pulled tight to the body. There is a little bit of blood beneath it, large splotches covering the neck; the eyes are closed. Michael can smell the meat and blood. It smells like dried hay and iron and copper. Like earth. The scent is not unpleasant, and he is unsettled by his acceptance of it. His fingers twitch by his sides. He wants to rip warm and beating parts out. That would _please_ something greater than him. And he could do it, easily, but he does not allow himself to touch the carcass.

“Did _you_ name him?” Gavin asks, no inflection to his voice.

Ryan raises his shoulders in a shrug and keeps on working. 

Michael walks away, and keeps walking. He makes a circle. Slowly and methodically, he makes the rest of the world stay on the outside: beyond this line, there will be nothing but six people and their powers. His Gift flows from him to the air around him where it will dull sound and keep them focused. He gets a feeling like he’s walking on ice.

“I cast a circle,” he says, turning to Geoff. He receives the briefest of smiles in recognition.

Geoff has his hands full of notes. Some of them are his own, some are Ryan’s, and some Gavin gave him, though Michael wonder when he found time to write their meager observations down. Geoff raises his voice and takes charge.

“Michael, stand here… And Jack, here – Ryan, closest to the animal…”

Slowly, they make a circle within the circle within the circle.

Even more slowly, they begin the butchered thing they call a ritual. There is a long pause where they stare at each other: _Who’s going to speak first?_

In his hands, Michael holds a crumbled up piece of parchment with instructions. He has read it already, beginning to end. A mix of chanting and action; halfway through Ryan will spill blood in the middle of the circle. Herbs are supposed to burn so that the smoke will ward away evil, and Michael will light that fire. The firewood is already stacked up. This spell will be everything that promotes sleep and banishes evil bound together by cow hide and wishes.

Nobody wants their voice to be the first and loudest.

Michael crumbles the paper up into a ball, even though he knows that he is going to have to smooth it out later.

 _He_ might as well be the one to start it. 

His next words are a curious mix of Latin and English: “ _Dormītō dum incantamentum nostro habebīs potential –_ Be quiet in your dreams, and let the earth be as black about you as the space between stars-“

It sounds _fucking pretentious_ , but Michael accepts that he’ll just have to deal with it. He is not alone in the thought, as Ray rolls his eyes.

Between the six of them, the manage to create something like a rhythm as they all join in.

Michael can tell that the incantation is a bit of a mess, but it _works_. He feels his power moving like an electric pulse along his spine, into his hands, and he spreads his arms. He is too far away to touch any of the others, but the magic is in the earth and the air instead. Goosebumps form everywhere on his skin.

The forest around them becomes colder and more distant, as if beyond a pane of glass. Only this circle seems real. Six people, a fire, brown blood on the grass and stones almost glowing with white chalk.

Four, five stanzas go by, rising and falling voices. _Sleep,_ _fade_ , _dream,_ pacifying little words.

Jack and Ray place herbs in the fire, one by one.

Gavin looks up and the wind rises. Clouds part in the high heavens above, and there is moonlight all over them.

That is Michael’s cue. He steps forward and raises his hands above his head. It is just twilight; a perfect time and a perfect moment and then – then his hands are aglow with red fire more magnificent than anything he has summoned before. He does not even need to concentrate or speak; the thought alone is enough.

Michael lowers his hands, and through the shimmering heat, he sees Geoff. There’s a little water in his eyes from the smoke. His lips are moving quickly, his knuckles white as he grasps the paper he does not need.  He stops chanting for a second, and Gavin fills in seamlessly, saying the words Geoff abandons in favor of moving his lips silently. _Proud of you._

The flames spring from Michael's hands to the bonfire. There are no newspapers as kindling – it is parchment and dry herbs. They burn easy and fast, the fire growing bigger and bigger. Michael is as warm as if he was standing in the middle of the pyre. He steps back with burning cheeks.

Ryan, now, silver knife in one hand, white bowl in the other.

Michael almost wants to move forward, his pure instincts telling him that something is wrong when heavy drops of the cow's blood drips to the ground and into the flames. He forces himself to stand still. It’s all part of the plan. Ryan performs his part carefully – meticulously – and not a drop is wasted.

Geoff is the last to stop chanting.

After his low voice draws out the last syllable of what sounded more like a prayer than any spell, there is a profound silence.

Nothing at all.

No birds take flight, no wind rustles the grass. The fire does not crackle, clothes do not rustle. Michael cannot hear his blood or his heartbeat or his _breathing_ , and now he notices how those sounds were always there.

Until now, when they are not. 

Now, a sound that encompasses all others starts to rise from below. It grows and grows and grows, louder and louder until it explodes into tinnitus-like tones making him wish for deafness.

When it disappears, it is only because everything else disappears as well.

A darkness that is a mix of every color takes hold of Michael and doesn’t let go.

 


	18. Creation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A character cuts their hand with a knife in order to draw blood. It's not very graphic, but it happens. The chapter also contains general unreality/dissasociative states.

Michael’s eyelashes flutter and his chest heaves. His senses return one by one. It is like waking from a dream when he sits up and a weight of sleep leaves him. The air he breathes is heavy with moisture: His palms are damp, and he dries them on his clothes while he comprehends his surroundings.

The circle is gone. The woods, too. He's alone.

He scrambles to his feet, black dirt clinging to his hands and arms.

He is all alone. Around him is a world of black and gray, hardly any color at all, with no sun or moon above and thus no way to track time. The ink-black sky contains unrecognizable stars and planets. A white mist lies low above the dew-crowned grasses.

Before, he was all anxiety and larger-than-life ritualism, and now that's all stripped away.

Unsure of what to do, he takes a step forward. The ground is soft – this is a marsh. Should he just go on? Or should he stay still and allow someone else to come find him?

As he scours the horizon for other people, he sees large, soft silhouettes that make him hesitate to raise his voice or announce his prescence in any other way. These are figures he has seen before, and the sense of urgency that grabs him is familiar. It tells him that he can’t stay here while the shadows close in. That he has to run.

He lets his reptile brain take hold of his body and move him forward into the bushes where leaves scratch against his legs and hands. Michael is afraid, but it's almost _easy_ \- his body knows fear and dark and can transform it into adrenaline and alertness. Above, infinity, and around him something much simpler.  

He breathes in deep – the air has no taste, but leaves a peculiar oily sensation on the inside of his mouth - and goes on through the brush. There are trees now, of course there are; they stand far apart and are tall, weeping with flesh and lymph fluid where the bark cracks.

He is still wearing his t-shirt, his jeans, his jacket. Despite this, he feels naked beneath the black sky. 

The ground becomes wetter and wetter, and his running slows to a brisk walk a few hundred meters from where he woke up. When he looks back over his shoulder, he sees his own trail disappearing as his footsteps in the wet grass fade.

The sound of water intrudes, softly, like there are droplets running down the inside of his skull. Michael turns away and looks forward again. The flat marsh itself stretches out before him. The reeds in the ponds seem like approximations of plants: they bend even though there is no wind and grow though it's hard to tell what might nourish them when no sun shines on their pale leaves. The water is murky, making it impossible to see what lies under the surface of the many small pools. Occasionally, something squirms between the roots of the plants, causing faint ripples. 

In the far distance, a shadow moves. Michael is sure of it; for a moment he can't breathe. He calms himself, swearing. The first word he utters in this world is  _fuck._

He wonders where the water comes from.

The marsh must be fed by rivers, but he cannot see any. Now that he stands still, the place is silent save for the wet sound of the worms in the water.

The shadows stare.

Rivers, Michael thinks, come from higher ground.

This place is flat.

Then: Rivers all find the sea. _Water_ finds the sea.

Many eyes watch him.

The area becomes a mess of movement. Squirming, writhing, wiggling. Trees choking on their own organic matter, mud-cloaked creatures with too many limbs and these eggshell-white eyes and yolks spilling all over their tar-black faces.

Michael is thinking of the sea.

* * *

Gavin doesn’t _wake up_ as much as he suddenly realizes his eyes are wide open. His mouth is open, too, and for a moment he’s worried about having ingested… _something_ in his sleep. He sits up and analyses the situation, because what else can he do?

He is alone, and this thought immediately makes him think of finding the others. The drive is strong enough that he knows he’ll do it no matter what is thrown at him. No matter where he is… Where is he?

Well, it seems to be underground. He feels entombed, surrounded by only earth, but he can tell by the sound that there must be weather and storm and wind close by. The rock is smooth against his skin, dripping with water as he reaches out to each side of the narrow cave. He tries to go up, out, to the air, wherever it is.

Wasn’t he in the woods just now? With the others?

He goes forward, but finds no light. He shivers now, even though it isn’t cold. In fact, he cannot feel any temperature at all, and the air has no taste. His body reacts with nausea and shakes, knowing better than his mind what might hurt it. The whispers find him like so many times before. The voices are small, but they are more insistent here - and indecipherable, as always. He doesn’t even try to block them out, knowing by now that nothing will help. They tell him to stop thinking, sometimes ordering and other times pleading with him to surrender. 

Still, he presses on. He runs his hands over the stone. He can feel the different textures of different kinds of rock. Pointy quartz, soft clay, a geological impossibility that guides him up when his fingers follow the strata. The tunnel curves upwards, and slowly, a copper-colored light starts to illuminate the cavern. 

A silhouette, right ahead.

The cave walls slip away as the room expands and expands, and even with his arms wide apart Gavin must give up on trying to touch them. It is still so dark, giving him no way of knowing the room’s size or where he is or anything but the fact that up ahead, someone is standing over what looks like glowing, molten gold. It runs from a spring in the rock and pools on the floor.

The man reaches in and lets it run between his fingers. Droplets hit the ground with a disturbingly regular rhythm. He doesn’t even flinch - Gavin guesses that the gold does not feel hot at all.

With his back turned to Gavin, the man admires the gold on his skin.

Gavin raises his voice, and it echoes all around them. “Ryan?”

Ryan does not answer, but it _is_ him, looking back, eyes all clouded and lips pressed tightly together. The yellow light draws out every sick feature of his face, makes it gaunt and shows how dark the circles under his eyes are. With a languid motion, he draws his hand back. Molten gold pools in his palm. The drops that fall from his fingers seep into cracks and crevices unseen in the stone.  

“Hey Ryan, speak to me.”

There are still visible stains from the cow’s blood all the way up to his elbows. There are no wounds, though, nothing to indicate that the gold hurts him.

Gavin comes a little closer. The whispers increase in strength. The individual voices change: one moment they are teasing him, the next ridiculing him, and then praising him – and yet he can’t understand them, not really. He could never relay their messages to others. The words make perfect sense individually, but the whole sentences evade his memory.

His mouth tastes like biting into something rotten, swallowing, and fearing what it might do to your body.

“Ryan-“ he says again, but he stops when he can’t hear his own voice above the whispers in his head. Or maybe they are outside his head now – hard to tell. Their mantra is variations on the words _come_ and _soon_ , a monotonous chant.

“Are you hearing them too, Ry?”

Ryan does not make eye contact. He looks up. His hands are turned upwards in a gesture that almost looks like prayer. When he speaks, his voice is low and still somehow audible despite their surroundings and situation.

“Yes.”

“Do you know – Ah, _fuck,_ where on earth are we?” Gavin takes a step forward. The light hurts his eyes a bit.

Ryan smiles. “Do you still think this is on earth?”

Gavin bites back his words. Knows that Ryan is right – this isn’t – can’t be anywhere _natural_. He stands still. It just… Doesn’t make sense. And he can’t really think for all the noise in his skull. He stares at Ryan and tries to emulate his breathing, because the other man seems a lot less on the brink of hyperventilating. Maybe because he’s insane. His eyes are open a little too wide.

“It said I could be king,” Ryan whispers. “King of all I wanted.”

“A mad king,” Gavin scoffs.

Ryan just chuckles. “I know.” He gazes at his hands. The gold runs off, leaving them clean, and he puts them in the pockets of his tan jacket. “Even so. Imagine the crown...”

“Are you coming with me?” Gavin can’t stop a little desperation from filtering through, and he steps closer again – “Tell me you’re coming with me.”

Slowly, Ryan turns his back on the gold. He nods, just once. “Where to?”

 “Away. Just – the fuck away from here. Let’s find the others.”

Ryan looks to the melted gold one last time. There is something melancholic about him all of a sudden. Gavin is not afraid of him, even now when he looks the most frightening. Because he knows, always knew, what the next words out of Ryan’s mouth would be:

“Yeah, let’s go find ‘em.”

* * *

Geoff wants to run, but the ground is too soft. He has to walk instead, and it is far, far too slow, like he’s striding through molasses. He wants to find other people as fast as possible, the thought of Michael and Gavin at the forefront of his mind with Jack, Ryan and Ray soon after. And if he could run, he would not have time to stare at his surroundings like this.

He sees everything very clearly.

He figures it is the experience he had last time he tried to contact this _being_ , this _place,_ that makes the difference. He speaks the language and knew from the moment he arrived that this was another plane.

Every blade of grass is filled with intent. Life force from a great being permeates everything. It is an _idea_ of earthly places, dreamt up by something Geoff almost knows.

He is so fucking afraid.

He considers walking backwards so he won’t have to look ahead, but looking back isn’t that much better. He keeps jumping at sounds and flickering shadows, curses echoing loudly out over the still water.

Above him the sky is filled with planets, some of them close enough that Geoff can make out the cloud formations and the shades of silver and blue that divide their continents and oceans. There are more stars here than he’s seen in his entire life up until this point, but they give no real light. They are reflected in hundreds of puddles on the ground.

Something ripples through the water and distorts the image. 

Geoff jumps to a knoll of grass, balancing carefully, afraid to touch the water. Is it snakes?

It looked like a snake, a _goddamn snake_ – of course the thing he’s most afraid of would be waiting for him here.

If that is what he’s most afraid of.

“ _Goddamn_   _it,_ ” he says, speaking to nobody but himself - “Go on, Geoff _fucking_ Ramsey, get your feet on the ground and get going.”

His body does not obey him.

But he _has_ to, he reminds himself. He _has to go_.

He does not move, but all around him does. The mist rolls in like a wave, and in the distance black shadows appear as if carried by the water. They wash up clad in shapeless robes that might once have been clothes, speaking that insidious foreign tongue. Always _speaking_. They’re constantly telling Geoff things he’d rather forget. Being able to understand them is a far bigger curse than anything they might be able to cast on him: They whisper about just giving in and giving up. They tell him about the patterns that tree roots form where no one can see them.

Geoff does not know if he could answer if he wanted. It is not impossible that his mouth would be capable of forming similar sounds. And it is likely that the language might have hidden itself deep in the coils of his brain, ready to spring alive if he only lets it. But if he ever starts a conversation – that might be the end of him, he thinks.

He stands there, on the grass, staring at the shadows, thinking of the slithering thing in the water.

Maybe hours are passing. Maybe he is wasting time like God knows he’s wasted too many other hours and days in his life, and now that there’s something – someone – he wants to save, he can’t get moving.

Footsteps, right behind him. Slow and heavy, but accompanied by breathing, which these otherworldly creatures do not seem like they would need.

Frozen with something that is _like_ fear, but also a little different, Geoff awaits whatever comes through the mist. He steels himself. He tries to remember a good spell. He’ll fight whatever comes. He closes his eyes and hears his own heartbeat, ready any second now –

When he feels a hand on his shoulder, he gasps in surprise, and then he feels like crying.

He turns to see Jack, who is muddy and cold and obviously as confused as Geoff himself, but still Jack. That hand on his shoulder is a known constant, a calming weight. He has felt it before, and it has always heralded an end to an argument or a promise made.

Jack isn’t going to abandon him to snakes and shadows and sounds. They’re too good friends for that thought to ever be cast into doubt, no matter what the whispers say. His mere presence is a reminder of sunlit days and late nights. He can trust Jack.

They make a wordless deal. Jack gives Geoff strength to go, and Geoff will lead them both.

“Fuck this place,” Geoff spits.

Jack supports him as he steps into the ankle-deep water. “Right.”

* * *

Michael walks, but by now he no longer _really_ sees the landscape around him. It is just one gray plane replacing the next, one dark thicket after another. He has started to see what he thinks might be visions. He walks by a creek, not daring to stray from it purely because of a hunch that something better might lie at its mouth. Intruding thoughts paint pictures every time he looks away from the water.

He sees himself standing in the deepest part of this place, between the swaying grasses that reach for him like the writhing arms of undiscovered cephalopods, below the thousand branches that grow teeth above.

His own voice asks: Doesn’t he have much in common with this place? With these shadows and silent, blind creatures?

There’s nothing but hunting, here - being hunted or chasing down something else. Nothing but hunger and _want_. It is a simple world. A clear world.

His hand strays towards the gun as he imagines the explosive noise of it firing.

Michael has so little in common with people, he realizes. He's better. Each step convinces him of it. Of course he has felt distant and separated when there's a part of him that fits in so well in these shadows.

And he knows that if he just walking out into this water, it would soon be waist-deep, but it would also be warm. He would be accepted. Others would try to pull him back to a mess of responsibilities and all the years he has left to live in the waking world, but he could be clad in furs and… He would be greater, stronger, he could take new names and find new paths and sleep.

Would someone try to pry him away from this?

His fingers glide along the barrel of his weapon. 

Does that constellation look familiar?

He shakes his head, but the thought stays.

* * *

Gavin and Ryan exit the cave and climb across a rock formation that looks like a quarry, but cannot have been carved by human hands. They then trek through the wasteland, the stone underneath them giving way to marsh as they go. Though it can be summarized easily, it is far from a simple journey - they keep stopping when it seems there's something just behind them or a little up ahead, and there's no way to know if they're going the right way at all. 

Gavin keeps touching the amulet by his wrist. He hopes it will lead him to Michael and Geoff. He does not know if this is legitimate, almost scientific belief in very real magic or simple superstition.

 _Maybe it’s the power of love._  He turns his hand and watches the crystal catch the light. _Yeah. As if._

All he knows is that he’ll find Michael.

He chases a feeling that has filled him for weeks, now. Ryan understands, and having him follow after makes everything feel better. Maybe his frightening appearance will keep the worse things at bay.

Some part of Gavin is fascinated by all that they encounter. There is a scientist in him who wants to stay underneath this foreign sky and study the heavenly bodies. How many new planets circle new stars? How many nebulae might he observe? It would be _kind of_ pointless when he’d have a hard time sharing his findings, but on the other hand… A voice in his head whispers about knowledge for knowledge’s sake. The joy of knowing what nobody else knows.

There is more knowledge here about the universe, about truth, than in Peake’s entire library.

Peake’s library – the trip with Michael – Michael.

Michael, somewhere back behind those hills. He must have passed through here; the scent and feeling of his aura are so strong.

“Do you think these are somebody’s footsteps?” Gavin asks, pointing to marks in the mud.

Ryan stops and considers the tracks. “Either a man or an animal. I hope we don’t meet it, whatever it is.”

”Don’t you think it might be one of the others?”

“…Maybe. Do you want to follow them?”

Gavin opens his mouth, but before he can speak, there’s a loud, sudden noise that makes him yelp.

A gunshot rings out across the moor.

Gavin tries to calm his racing heart. 

 _It was a gun, right?_   _How is there a gun out here?_

The source of the noise is nowhere to be found, too far away. But he remembers the direction, and after exchanging a look with Ryan, they both start to move towards it. 

The moor becomes a mess of rivulets that he hurries along with, Ryan right behind him, his footsteps the reason that Gavin stays sane as the mist billows around them. The whole place creeps him out. He is thankful that he can occupy his brain with finding places to put his feet. He can barely avoid sinking into the mud as he goes and only looks up to catch glimpses, afraid of staring too long at the awful growths that pretend to be plants and the sky that is just too full of things.

In the distance, two pale shadows move in a way that almost mirrors Gavin and Ryan.

Gavin stops. When he yells, his voice falls flat, as if the air refuses to carry it.

“Hey!”

The figures stop. They look around, as if trying to judge whether it was a trick of the realm they find themselves in or an actual human being.

Gavin waves, as if that might help, and slowly, the two shadows come towards him. For a long while they are just figures in the mist – then Geoff emerges, ragged, but with fervor in his eyes. Jack is behind him.

Gavin smiles and sees Geoff sigh with relief; warmth floods through his body -

Another gunshot makes all four of them stop and draw breath as one.

“You hear that too?” Geoff asks, and Gavin nods.

“Downstream,” Gavin says, and even though he doesn’t know _how_ he knows, it is true. The amulet, the auras, his _soul_ tells him so.

(In this moment, he is suddenly sure that he must have a soul - or something similar, anything to set him apart from what exists in this place.)

 

They do not find Ray.

Ray finds _them_. His hands are bloody at the knuckles and his voice is hoarse because he surrounds himself with magic that glows like electricity – and yet looks so small and insignificant when the mist swallows all light. The shadows are kept at bay by his brightness. Temporarily.

He runs, spells imbuing him with lightness and speed that carries him across the dreamscape. He fights all that would try to break him.

By this point, when they meet, Gavin is finding it hard to think for long at a time. The voices in his head - that he now knows must come from some outside influence, making the name pretty incorrect - are not shutting up. At all.

Gavin finds that he admires Ray for remaining in control of his magic.

_Well, he always was more skilled._

The fact that Ray  _hesitates_ before joining them is not admirable, but understandable.

“I feel like I’m better alone,” he says. His face is pale, but his energy is far from spent. There is a core inside him that still refuses to fade. He is dirty, and he looks like he’s trying to say an apology. 

A third gunshot.

Geoff looks like the bullet went through his heart.

Ray sees this and says no more. He only repeats what Gavin tells him:

“Downstream.”

 

Gavin holds Geoff’s hand, at first with a tight grip around his wrist, and then their fingers entwine. They are out of breath together, neither of them daring to let go.

 

This is how they find Michael.

This is how they find him on his knees in the wet sand, hands empty and palms upturned, head thrown back to gaze upon that which cannot be fathomed. The briny air leaves a sheen of moisture on his face. The waves create a monotonous rhythm as they reach for him, crashing ever closer, spreading heavy, black seaweed. It is an ocean of spit and a beach of ground-up teeth: it the maw of this world.

Blood drips onto the sand. Just enough for a few, darkened spots to form.

Empty casings lie half-buried like they just washed up and were forgotten.

The gun is inches from the water.

All of these things are easier to look at than what hovers above Michael, above the dark and shifting sea, and Gavin feels that his brain clings to these details. It’s better to look down, but some part of him – the part that brought him here - makes it impossible to _not_ look upwards. When he does, all whispers fade and the voices are silent. 

Wider than the sky, a shape hovers. Its surface ripples like the water below it, forming eyes and mouths, limbs and outgrowths, a hundred pustules and swellings, all made of bulging flesh that shimmers as if clad in scales, with other parts much softer, like human skin, like it contains within it all creatures. Each eye is lifeless with no intelligence, but still endlessly difficult to look at; these are eyes not made for seeing in light. Beholding the image of the eldritch creature, one knows the texture of the brain within its mountainous carcass, all the cells connected by unearthly tissue, neurons made of stars transmitting knowledge that could lead to madness – or elevate, educate, ease. Everything moves, the sky filled with tentacles and torn openings, something not analogous to guts but similar in shape and color spilling out. The sight inspires a kind of sick, sick awe and it makes Gavin throw up.

He shakes as he empties his stomach onto the sand. Bile mixes with spit. The world is momentarily obscured by the water in his eyes, and as he heaves, he somehow remembers that like the sea, tears are salt water as well.

As soon as he can breathe for the stench and the taste in his mouth, Gavin runs to Michael’s side. He keeps his eyes on the ground. He calls out every name he has - 

_Michael, boi, love._

Then he drops to his knees and wraps his arms around Michael. It does not feel like a hug, but like bones and sinew and muscle moving. Cold and damp, wet sand against Gavin’s legs. He is too aware of Michael’s racing pulse. Of the blood inside him, of the fragility of their bodies.

“Are you hurt, boi?” he asks.

No response. Gavin hugs him tighter, fingers wound into the fabric of Michael’s clothes, but Michael remains so rigid and still. He hardly notices Geoff kneeling down as well.

It takes strength for Gavin to end the hug and push Michael back again so he can look him over. There is no blood on him, save for a bit of red smeared at the edge of his mouth. Just a bitten lip. Gavin would have kissed him anyway if he hadn’t just vomited. He holds Michael’s hand instead. It’s cold, the only cold thing he’s felt at all in this strange place, and when Gavin turns it over he sees little red marks. Like Michael has been fighting through thorns or touching nettles and thistles, or like he has been bitten by animals. The blood on the sand comes from these wounds – and perhaps from above.

Gavin can see it now: Michael standing there on the beach, armed, taking a stand. Gun defiantly raised as he stares into too-many eyes. Firing one, two, maybe three times before the madness becomes overwhelming.

Gavin dares to look at the hovering darkness again. The gelatinous skin could swallow any bullet, and besides, a small human weapon could never hurt something that fills the sky…

Jack steps forward, but Gavin notices it only because he steps on bone-white driftwood that cracks loudly open. 

Ray and Ryan shuffle closer, too. Ryan’s eyes are fixed on the pulsating mass above, as if he’s just _fascinated_ with it and the dreams that drip into his brain from the hundreds of mouths, the saliva of kings. But he’s close, and that’s all that matters.

Geoff takes Michael’s other hand. This time, none of them shy away.

“You can come back, Michael,” Geoff says. “Come on.”

* * *

It’s not that Michael was ever gone. He was, if anything, far too present in the moment.

Now, he closes his eyes. This darkness is a gift: It means he no longer has to behold the being on the other side of his eyelids.

In the dark, there is the smell of brine, no voices but Gavin’s and no touch but that of friends.

He can breathe. Slowly, but surely, his lungs expand and collapse.

This must be what a trapped animal feels like.

Breathe in, breathe out.

 _I’m not a fucking trapped animal,_ he thinks. The thought swells inside him and crashes like a wave. Joints move, muscles ache. His hands are warm and he is loved.

He raises his voice, opening his eyes again. Salt stings and his throat hurts; he roars nonetheless.

“I AM NOT FUCKING SCARED OF YOU!”

He smiles, canines bared, glad that he’s taking up space and creating something even if it is only temporary sound. Gavin winces by his side, and then Michael registers his scared lover.

“No,” Gavin gasps, “Don’t kiss me, Michael, you really don’t want to-“

Michael ignores him, makes the kiss brief and chaste before he throws himself to the other side and into Geoff’s arms, hungry and living in his embrace.

He lets himself feel the honest depth of his emotions. No reason to keep up appearances now, and no reason to pretend anything. No reason to suspect those feelings will pass. As he was scared he'd lose his mind he thought, first and foremost, of Gavin and Geoff. He was not thinking of the one night behind them, but the many he wants in the future - he dared to imagine them, and in his mind they appeared like hazy images, almost like memories already. 

He vows not to look back as he tears his eyes from the horror.

He looks only at his hands, and at the hands in his hands that so defined and clear and real compared to the world around them. If he could feel Geoff and Gavin’s auras before, the feeling is a hundred times stronger now. He could drown in it.

There is one far stronger aura: that of the being that bleeds cerulean into the sea. Unlike any other aura Michael cannot associate it with anything. Gavin has always been a beach and Geoff is the color black, but what he feels now has no earthly analogy.

He focuses not on that, but on everything else -

Ray, who is feather-light, rose-red petals and black velvet as he joins hands with Ryan -

Ryan, white marble and dust in the air and golden metals next to Gavin -

Jack, the feeling of shorts in summer and a breeze and green glass -

And they're a circle, whole, unbroken.

The heavens are moving. The planets are adrift in a sea of stars, more than there should be, only occasionally visible between tentacles of black flesh. The speed is dizzying, the lights ever restless.

Michael feels drawn to this movement. There's a definite pull in his stomach. He could stay here, and the patterns of the celestial bodies would be clear. He'd have another name, live an easier life. There would be supreme certainty in knowing what to serve and the path to take. He’d have nothing to worry about but praise and survival.

But he will not walk towards the black horizon or let the sea swallow him.

He asks, "How do we get home?"

And he doesn't know what home is. There's _his_ home with its mess and hidden magic, a circle drawn on the floor. There's also a home in Geoff's house where Michael knows his way around the kitchen and has wandered through the rooms. There’s a home in that embrace back in Gavin's too-small apartment, a home hidden in the brim of a witch's hat.

So softly, Michael sinks into the memory. Draws strength from it.

"We can't hang around here," he says, "We have to get back."

Gavin nods.

Geoff mutters something – “I just don’t know what this _is_ , and we – we can…”

Silence. 

Behind him, Ryan stares up at obsidian eyes. He looks like he is counting every almost-breath that the old god takes. Then his eyes meet Michael's. A gentle expression comes onto his face as he reaches into a pocket and withdraws something very small and rounded. When he comes closer, Michael can tell what it is.

An acorn.

Michael receives it with both hands even though he doesn’t want to let go of his lovers. He stares down at it, grateful, but can’t get words past his lips. It seems to be shared between them – words don’t come easy, here.

The acorn in his hand is lost purity and something  _good_ , untainted. 

 _This must be what a revelation feels like_. 

Michael feels heat spread through his body, the unstoppable kind, the undaunted fire.

"Just enough," he says. "We've - I've got just enough that we're all gonna make it."

He stands up and feels the wind against his face.

Nobody knows who brings out the knife, but Michael soon has it in his hand. He turns it, catches his own reflection in the blade.

It's so easy.

He holds out his hand and lets the red drops fall before his feet. He admires them, tilting his palm to watch them run at crooked angles. It feels good all the way to his innermost center, like there's a reward for doing this. There’s a glimpse of sliver and blood on the sand, not just an accident now, but something meant to happen. Afterwards, the acorn in his cupped hands lies surrounded by red. 

Gavin looks at him and smiles with just a hint of the insanity they all share. 

And then they are close. Gavin and Geoff each lay a hand on one of Michael's shoulders. 

He raises his hands in a gesture that makes up for the lack of sigils. Starlight, blood and mist between his hands. 

He does not need words here.

Just the Gift, overflowing. 

Some little part of Michael whispers that this is great and beautiful: the six of them in a world of grey and black with linked hands, the sand beneath them colored by sacrificial blood and their minds so close that they think the same thoughts. This is the madness they indulge in, but it is an easy place to be.  

The blood meets the ocean. The foam becomes dirty, far more rust-red than the amount of blood should allow for. The color spreads like tendrils through the water. 

* * *

_A feeling of satisfaction, of being briefly pleased and sated._

* * *

Michael feels it as much as the being above.

And if that is a moment of weakness, he’ll use it. It takes all of his strength to come to that decision when so much of his body and mind longs to resign itself to this realm and the will of something greater.

He squeezes Gavin’s hand and feels his all the way up his arm, into his shoulder and the right side of his heart. There, it reminds him that there is a better kind of beach with fresh air and screeching birds. This other ocean floods his arteries and nourishes the forests growing darker and deeper by the left chamber of his heart, the treetops reaching for his lungs. Here, Geoff’s footprints are all over the ground, deep in the pine-needle piles, his crystals all glimmering behind Michael’s eyes and his earth in the liver where roots delve among blood cells.

Beyond these physical organs is the source of his Gift.

Michael wishes and lets the power flow from that well inside him. He can feel it easily now, far easier than once upon a time in the woods, and he pours and he pours and he pours. He feels five other Gifts intermingling with his own, almost too blurred to be told apart when they come so suddenly and with such force.

Michael is catching fire.

He isn’t afraid of it anymore. None of his friend’s gifts would sear him or allow him to come to harm. He knows it instinctively. And his own - that is a _cleansing_ fire.

He closes his eyes and feels warm, knows that the flames are spreading from his body and out, and knows that they are burning away these flat coulisses, these fake horizons. The withered almost-god – that, he can’t fight – but he can use its distracted sleep to leave its influence. In front of it, he can weave protection and comforting words and maybe, just maybe, make it hold back. Make it retreat from all the light he is creating, blue-white heat all around him, growing stronger and stronger and –

 

There is life in the acorn. All the hours of life spent hoping, all the promises, all the let-downs. All the rainy days, all the mud, all the deep long shadows. All the wind chimes and all the worn couches – all the good kisses and all the bad – all the ice-cold streams and unsteady bridges, all the long drives and deep woods.  

 

Michael wants to believe, more than anything, despite everything, that magic is that acorn sprouting and not writhing ancients. The Gift might come from this dead place, but it can still be a source of life and warmth – the warmth that doesn’t burn and sings of love along Michael’s bones.

 

In the waking world, he will see the tree that will sprout from that acorn, and he’ll stand there with Geoff and Gavin who even now touch him and entwine their magic with his so that he can’t help but think of them. They let themselves be guided by Michael's intent. 

He pours from the well inside him until it runs dry, and then he tears at his stomach lining, uses the white fluid of his brain, expends every spark in every synapse.

At last, there is nothing left.

There’s just this bright white light, and he thinks that if all his magic left his body at once, it would look like this.

 

All whiteness, weightlessness.

 

Something black reaches for him. He wants to laugh despite the strange state he is in. The blackness can’t reach him because of all the light. It does not dare to touch anyone he loves, either. It retreats and returns to an uneasy slumber. 

 

Michael hits the ground. 

Everything inside him burns away until he is hollow. 


	19. Consequences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just an epilogue left after this.  
> Contains a tasteful fade-to-black sex-scene thing.

Michael doesn’t remember what comes after.

Not if he wakes up with his cheek pressed into the pine-needle covered forest floor, bleeding – although he must have bled, as the red traces of dried blood on his arms so clearly show.

He doesn’t remember struggling to get back on the path, nor following it – although he must have staggered somewhere, all these bruises on his knees telling their own story. 

He doesn’t remember driving – but he must have been in Geoff’s car at some point, because it’s parked halfway up the curb when Michael looks outside.

 

All he knows is that he ends up in his own house, in his own bed, but not alone. 

In the morning, he does not have the energy to figure out what happened after the nightmare ended. At first, he's barely able to take in the present moment, surrounded as he is by the scent of dust and unwashed bodies, the feeling of arms around him, the sound of Gavin mumbling in his sleep. Geoff is on MIchael's right, somehow not yet pushed onto the floor despite the bed being too small for three people.

It just... works out anyway. Not necessarily in an entirely comfortable way: Gavin's leg is heavy, draped over Michael who in turn knows that the way he rests his head must make Geoff’s arm bend at an uneasy, crooked angle – but it’s more than good enough. Michael finds that he’s starting to have a little more faith in the universe as an institution. Perhaps things just _work out_ a little more often than he previously believed. It's a small miracle that they're safe and together all three of them - and, Michael realizes, made it through a night without bad dreams and whispers. A part of him knows that these things won't bother them anymore. A cold shadow has left him, like when a cloud drifts on and the warmth of the sun reaches you after you have gotten used to its absence. 

But Michael's thoughts are only half-formed, constantly hijacked by associations and glimpses of last night. He is too busy with these impressions to say a word. Neither of his boyfriends do, either.

He just lies there, most likely for hours, too tired to move. It takes time to process all the sights and sounds, occasionally slipping into a more or less unconscious state as the remnants of the grey world pass through him.

He focuses on the fact that he can hear breathing. Even and slow, even when the others wake. 

Gavin hides his face in the crook between Michael’s shoulder and neck, one hand resting on his side. Michael realizes that at some point during the night, he must have gotten naked from the waist up. The T-shirt is lying on the floor, covered in a mixture of blood and mud. Even as he becomes aware of that, there’s nothing sexual about the situation that makes him think about his state of undress. It only means that he can feel Gavin’s nails lightly against his skin every once in a while.

The physical fatigue retreats, but another kind remains. A tiredness that goes deeper than just lack of sleep.

A void behind his ribs.

A pillow rustles. Geoff’s voice is quiet and kind of rough. “Michael?” 

Michael responds by craning his neck to meet Geoff’s eyes - he can find them even in this half-dark, familiar but… worried. The look is mixed with a kind of apathy. Maybe that's only natural when the world has thrown so much at you that you’ve seen worse and shouted yourself hoarse.

"Mhm?"

Geoff takes a deep breath. The kind that means he's considering whether he should say the next words.  “I can’t – I can’t see you in the dark anymore.”

“…What does that mean?”

“It's your... light. Your aura." Geoff flexes his fingers, the faint light coming through the curtains playing on the angles of his wrist and palm. The tattoos crawl across his skin: The ship faces a storm and all flowers and symbols ripple. "Used to be that I could sometimes see it. Can't even feel it now.”

Cold creeps through Michael. He doesn’t know what to say. Swallows.

“And the Gift is…” Geoff closes his eyes. Michael watches his hand as he summons a small glowing light. It shines - then it fades after just a few seconds, and Geoff’s strained expression shows that it wasn’t on purpose. 

Michael tries the same trick. An outstretched hand, a deep breath. All he wants is to make a little spark. When nothing happens, he realizes what the emptiness he feels is.

It is a lack of magic.

He closes his eyes to draw from his Gift, but the well is dry.

 “There’s nothing left,” he whispers. _Nothing at all_.

If he hadn’t been in this bed, he would’ve been hyperventilating a little. He’s so used to the feeling of his Gift just under the surface of his thoughts, but he can’t dip into that altered state of mind. No water and flame awaits him when he tries to reach his powers.

Gavin looks up at Michael through locks of hair. His eyes are a little red. “Same here.”

A heavy silence hangs while they all consider the implications. In lieu of speaking, Michael lets Gavin pull them all tighter together, taking comfort in that if nothing else.

Then Gavin hesitantly presses his hand flat against Michael’s chest.

Michael’s heartbeat quickens.

Gavin closes his eyes like one remembering a good memory or listening to a symphony, his mouth twitching in a faint smile. “I'll bet it’s still in there,” he says. “I think I still feel it. lts just really small.”

Beat. Beat. Michael hears his own blood rush through his body. "Small?"

“Scattered ash. Metal splinters. Smoke a mile away.”

Michael kisses Gavin on the forehead and sighs with relief. “If the Gift normally comes back after you use too much magic..."

“...This might fix itself, too,” Geoff says, “but I think it’s going to be like… a three-week hangover. Mark my words. Not a quick thing.”

Michael closes his eyes. 

“Not something you can just sleep off.”

 

By the time Gavin gets up as the first of them, it is almost dark again outside. Michael, drifting in and out of sleep, wakes when he feels the loss of warmth by his side. To compensate, he moves closer to Geoff.

He listens as Gavin walks through the shades of blue in the bedroom and out into the rest of the apartment. The floor creaks under his feet. It sounds like he is trying to be quiet, more or less tiptoeing around. Uncharacteristically considerate. The TV turns on, the volume very low – just background noise. Michael can’t discern the words, but it must be some kind of news report. A cupboard opens and water runs. For about the twentieth time this day, he thinks about how happy he is to be home.

The sound causes him to remember that he is thirsty, too. He sits up slowly, pushing the blanket aside. His bare feet are mostly unscathed save for, like the rest of his body, a strange soreness once he stands up. He throws a blanket over Geoff’s sleeping body before he leaves – the old man deserves it.

He finds Gavin sitting on the table, feet swinging. He’s drinking a glass of water and staring at the TV in the next room. Upon seeing Michael, he waves just once.

“Hey,” he says.

Michael acknowledges Gavin with a nod and goes to get his own glass of water. A hazy image of a river intrudes on his mind. Placing his fingers under the tap, the ice-cold water reminds him that he is undoubtedly within the real world again and lets him force the memory away. Gavin’s voice has a similar effect.

“It’s all the same.”

“What is?” Michael asks.

“Just – All of it. Nothing’s changed. The news are the same. Nobody feels any different.”

“At least none of the muggles don’t.” Michael drinks. He still feels no hunger, no concern for anything but the moment – and he doesn’t bother fighting it. He’s drained, he’s done. There’ll be time for worrying later. “What did you expect?”

Gavin shakes his head. “You’re right. I don’t know what I was thinking. Normal people are daft.”

“I’ll have you know I have friends who are normal people,” Michael replies with a smile and mock-indignation. “I won’t stand for that.”

“That’s ‘cause you’re daft, too. Sometimes.”

“Says the dude sitting on my table instead of the perfectly good couch.”

“Aren’t you going to sit next to me?”

Michael catches Gavin’s eyes and then accepts his invitation. He realizes why Gavin sits where he does when the last sunbeams of the day warm his shoulders. “So, yeah… Nothing’s changed. Not between us, either, for the record."

"I kind of noticed this morning," Gavin remarks. "You're cuddly. But I woke up so  _confused._  I'm not really sure about a lot of things that happened."

“I know that you saved my fucking life back there.”

“I did?” Gavin runs his fingers through his hair, pride washing over his face. “I mean I – I don’t remember much.”

“Really?” Michael is about to say something about how that’s stupid, because how can he _not_ remember when everything was so odd and frightening – and then _he_ tries to recall any particular event and fails to remember much of anything. The last couple of minutes – or were they hours? – while he cast the last spell are fairly clear, but everything before that fades to a blur. “What _can_ you remember?”

Gavin starts picking at his nails as he speaks. “I was underground, with Ryan. We went up into some kind of marsh. Then I ran and found the others – found you…”

Michael covers Gavin’s hands with his own, partly to reassure him and partly just to stop the annoying fidgeting.

“Found you there on the beach. And then you did that magic thing. It felt good.”

“That’s what she said.” Michael regrets the joke the moment it leaves his mouth; Gavin looks equal measures indifferent and troubled by the things he’s remembering. “Okay, it doesn’t matter what we remember. The point is that it’s over.”

“Deal.” Gavin smiles. “It’s weird. It feels like it’s morning. Does it feel like morning to you?”

“It’s just ‘cause we slept all day.”

“I was gettin' scared it was me somehow. Being weird with time.”

“Speaking of time!” In an uncoordinated, almost-still-asleep kind of way, Geoff comes to join them. His voice, unexpectedly loud, makes Michael flinch; he hadn’t noticed how low he and Gavin had ended up talking. “Isn’t it about time you got off of the dinner table so we could get some food instead? The both of you need to _eat_ , or you’ll-”

“I got it.” Michael jumps down, back into the shade. 

"I can go order a pizza" Gavin says, stretching as he heads for the kitchen. "That okay?"

"Fine," Michael replies. Judging by the sound, Gavin gets to work searching the shelves for menus or fliers. Michael isn't even sure where his phone is right now. Before he can consider it, a t-shirt comes flying his way - he catches it despite his reflexes being awfully slow.

“I just picked it off one of your shelves,” Geoff says, by way of an excuse. “I hope that's okay with you."

“I don’t mind,” Michael says. He holds the garment out and rolls his eyes. “But of all the shirts, you picked this one? It’s, um… suitable for a hangover.”

Geoff crosses his arms and leans against the door frame.  “You’re only insulting your own clothes.”

“I know.”

“And besides, who do you have to impress? I think me and Gavin can handle you not looking your best.”

Michael pulls the t-shirt over his head. It’s a size too big and not that great looking, but… “Point taken.” It's a pleasant thought to have. The sun finally sinks below the horizon outside, and Michael stifles a yawn. "I'm still working through the fact that we're here. Safe.  _Together_. It's good."

“It's going to be a good thing, yeah,” Geoff replies. “But wait until you hear about all the petty shit I’ve argued with Gavin about during the years. You have _no idea_.“

Michael shakes his head. This was a relationship he thought might turn out to be nothing more than a product of temporary madness, gone again once everything was back to normal. Stating the fact that it _isn’t_ makes him smile so widely. He knows it is a stupid looking grin, but he feels all light and bubbly and can’t help himself. There's a lot he has no idea about. Now that the biggest worry - the monster, the dreams - is gone, there's room in his head for his biggest joy. “It’s not like I expect it to be all easy." He stretches his arms. “But now's not the time for that. Now's the time for returning to something resembling borderline fucking normality. And pizza."

* * *

Days later, Michael double checks that the door is locked before he leaves. He had imagined that he would soon be safe behind those anti-thievery wards that Gavin and Ray constructed a long time ago, but now he’ll have to rely on more mundane measures for a while longer. He puts the keys into the inner pocket of a light summer jacket.

While he walks, he keeps forming fists in his pockets. When he tightens muscles and grits his teeth, he can just barely sense a little of his Gift. Casting any spell is like trying to run a marathon on an empty stomach. Suddenly, there’s a void inside him and his hands cramp up. There’s just no power.

Dead battery, times one hundred.

Gavin has been nice enough to offer him sweets and energy bars stolen from Geoff’s kitchen, but the usual methods do not seem to work. Though all six members of their group are drained in the same way, none of them are hit as bad as Michael. After the worst shock was over, they have all tried to stay busy.

No longer distracted by magic, Michael has been studying over the weekend. Not because his grades might still be saved, but because it is something to do. 

Geoff can mend beads and heat up his mugs. He has people calling him about their Gift feeling different, and he can’t explain. He can only try, pacing around his house as he says there’s nothing to be scared of. There are apparently a lot of people who could not tell that there was anything wrong until it was righted. Michael envies them their ignorance, those callers who keep pulling Geoff away from him.

Protective amulets sell well and finally, it is spring.

Michael lets the sun warm him as he picks up the pace. It’s a long walk to Geoff’s place, but he wants the air and time to think. He wants to arrive calm, not considering the fact that his magic – despite Gavin’s insistence that his Gift can still be felt – might never return to what it once was. He imagines it like a muscle or a bone that, once sprained and broken, never grows back quite the same...

Walking into Geoff’s front yard, he decides not to dwell on that thought. Instead, he welcomes the familiar sigils and the sense of belonging.

This time, a few days after the event the coven have collectively taken to calling the Ritual - like it has a capital R – they choose to meet not in shadowy rooms, but outside.

Michael steps out and sees the others standing in bright sunlight, surrounded by neglected plants as they celebrate spring. The world is a palette of vibrant yellows and deep greens. Plants grow and spread, birds sing and voices grow louder between the trees.

Though he knows that he could barely light the grill if he wanted, Michael does not have it in him to be annoyed when he gets to see Geoff in a stupid apron and Gavin smiling like an idiot with a beer in one hand, discussing something with Jack that makes him more animated than usual. It is still a little cold, but they seem to have scrounged magic between them to summon a warmer wind. The breeze is exactly local enough that none of the neighbors have to be any the wiser.

Michael settles in, soon a part of the conversation with Jack and Gavin. Jack wants a pair of extra hands to help with spring planting. Sweet-smelling smoke wafts from the coals. It’s more of a party than a regular meeting – it’s not even Sunday.

After just ten minutes of this, the doorbell rings. Geoff goes to check on it and returns with a bright-eyed young man behind him. Michael’s first impression is that the guy can’t be more than five feet under the cowboy hat and may or may not be a douche based on his sunglasses. But the man's presence causes the hair on Michael's arms stand on end. He must have the Git, too.

Ryan steps forward to greet the stranger. “Hey, Jeremy,” he says, gesturing to the table with his own can of diet coke. “Grab a drink.”

“Who’s Jeremy?” Gavin asks, and Michael notices how he stands a little closer. At the same time, there is a spark of interest in his eyes.

“He's an acquaintance of mine,” Ryan explains offhandedly. "I met him while researching. You know, the ritual. Ray knows him."

Jeremy tips his wide-brimmed hat in greeting. “You can say friend, Ryan. And you guys must be the rest of the coven he talked about. Did it ever work?”

“It worked,” Geoff says.

Ryan adds, “I think we're all better off now. The being seems to be... A little further from our world.”

Jeremy nods. “I thought so - I’ve felt lighter as of late.” He gets himself a can from the table and starts drinking, casually becoming one of them with an ease Michael had not imagined he could posses.

“I’m feeling like _a_ lighter,” Michael comments. “Been so fucking drained ever since we did it.”

“Chin up.” Jeremy bounces a little where he stands. Then he turns towards Geoff, picking him out from the group - but of course, there aren't a lot of people who matches his description. “Tattoos, mustache... Geoff, right? I was talking with Ryan about maybe working together with you? Not right now of course, if you’re busy, but-“

“You’re welcome,” Geoff says, and then he looks to his companions for affirmation. Nodding and mumbled agreements ensure.

Jeremy’s face lights up. “Great. That’s just great.” He seems to notice the confused stares he gets and adds, ”I’m just so impressed at what you managed to do according to Ryan. Of course I want to join up.”

“And I think he’ll be a great fit,” Ryan says. "Espicially since... Oh, nevermind."

At this point Ray draws attention to himself for the first time that afternoon. "It's alright. It's not like Jeremy's going to be a substitute, but... I was thinking of leaving you for a little while, actually.”

Silence. Geoff looks at him,  brows furrowed. “But why?”

Ray smiles. "It's just a little bit. Hard to explain. I was alone for what felt like ages in that realm, and it... wasn't actually that bad. I know it sounds wierd as shit, but there are things I want to know about that I can’t find out here, with you.” Ray says it with a smile on his face, and that makes it feel easier. Like less of a farewell and more of a see-you-soon.  “I want to know what potential I have if I work alone. Gonna walk the ley lines for a bit.”

Ryan has known for a while. Michael can tell. The way he stands, the way he looks at Ray… Ryan has known for a while, but it’s the kind of decision Ray would have to make and say himself. And now the rest of them react, and Michael is not going to be the last to speak out. He steps forward and lays a hand on Ray’s shoulder.

“You know what? Good luck, Ray. Let’s celebrate that, too.”

Ray takes a joking bow. Jeremy looks at all their faces, unsure, it seems, of how to react. In the end he just goes along. Glasses are raised, reflecting the sun.

 

In the shade, Gavin and Michael touch glasses again after the brief commotion dies down. Michael drinks slowly. He savors the moment and the flat diet coke from Ryan’s car.

“It feels like thunder in the air,” Gavin says.

“There’s not a cloud in the sky, Gav. It’s just because it’s getting closer to summer. The air’s changing.”

“Right.” Gavin looks down at his glass. “I really should know that, considering I’m the weather-changer – uh – guy…”

“A good point.”

“Did I ever tell you about when I tried to work with lightning? The thing about my face?”

Michael raises an eyebrow. “Go on." 

“I had a little accident,” Gavin says. Over by the table, Jeremy is talking with Geoff, who keeps making sweeping gestures with his spatula. Watching Ryan and Jack dodge around him distracts both Michael and Gavin for a moment. “You know those lightning bolts superheroes sling around? Those are… not a good idea. It got all out of control for me – and that was before any of the creepy shit started, before I met you, even, so I have no excuse at all. A lil' bit of my cheek’s still numb.”

“Really?”

“Can’t feel it.” Gavin points out the spot. "Maybe I'll try again when it's summer-storm season"

The air buzzes around them. Flowers are starting to bloom, and the insects have taken notice. A gust of wind removes a particularly annoying fly from Gavin’s vicinity.

“But the point is,” Gavin continues, “that now that I think about it… It’s kind of the same after being in that… Other place. Like there’s a part of my mind that’s numb, now. The part that used to hear the voices.”

“Isn’t that good?”

“It’s swell.”

Gavin leans back against the sun-warmed wall, crossing his arms. His shoulders relax, and his shadow engulfs the buds on the potted plants. Michael reaches out to hold his hand, being gentler than he thought he could be. Gavin glances towards Geoff, but then he looks only at Michael who guesses his thoughts. This moment has nothing to do with Geoff at all. It’s just them.

Just them as they kiss in plain view of everyone.

Gavin is the one who takes it upon himself to explain the situation afterwards. “It’s okay,” he starts. He still hasn’t let go of Michael. “We’ve worked it all out.”

* * *

Ray slips away as soon has his powers have recovered, headed into white fog, weaving a different sort of spell around his name and leaving no doubt in Michael’s mind that he’s going to be famous one day. Well, famous among spellbinders and a known name among witches. Famous in hidden ways.

Michael tells him this on Skype that same night, and Ray laughs.

Michael sees his own face in the corner of the screen – the face he presents to Ray, colored blue by the light of the screen and in stark contrast to the background. The dark circles under his eyes are fading. And there is something new in his expression, too. A smile always waiting to burst forth from the corners of his mouth. A different look in his eyes.

* * *

Soon, a Sunday comes where Ryan drops by as the only one apart from Michael and Gavin, who have to admit to arriving for other reasons than the strictly magical. He seems to have waited for this day, because he strides towards Geoff and Michael with distinct purpose in his step. 

Michael is drawing sigils in black marker. Physical, concrete drawings help him muster the faint magic he can, and they are starting to show up in the weirdest places around him. This is part of a pattern. Michael’s books are on Geoff’s shelves lately. His pens turn up in the strangest drawers. In turn, Michael keeps finding foreign socks and bags of tea he never drinks in his own apartment, and he loves it.

Ryan has no makeup on, but he _does_ have a little amulet around his neck with what looks like a bone in the center. Upon noticing Michael’s staring, he tugs it under his shirt.

He sits down on the couch, opposite Geoff, and says, “Thank you.”

“For what?” is the reponse. “Dragging you into what was - let's be honest - an awful experience?”

“Maybe.” Ryan shrugs. “Maybe that. And for having Diet Coke in your fridge for me. Seriously – I’m saying thanks for letting me be here."

Geoff puts aside his laptop and leans forward.

Ryan goes on. "Has Gavin talked about what he saw in… you know?”

Michael says, “He said he saw you - you were together in some kind of cave. That's it. I don’t think he remembers whatever you're getting at. And all _I_ recall is that you came through for me.”

Ryan looks down at his hands. “Gavin is right - there was some underground place. I remember it pretty clearly, actually. And I was _this_ close to going off the deep end. If it wasn’t for you, then I would’ve gone. But you’ve accepted me  for just… being what I am. I know I’m odd. And you know it too, but I’m still in this coven with you and not on my own. I’m glad that’s the case.”

“So are we, dude,” Michael says. “You saved my ass, however the fuck you knew what to do.”

"I-"

"I don't want to know, really."

Ryan shrugs. “ _You_ did the work.” 

Geoff rolls his eyes. “Great, great. It was a team effort, guys, great job. Ryan, you shouldn’t say _thanks_ for us being decent human beings.”

“Well, if you look at it _that way_ …” Ryan leans back, finally relaxed. “Does that mean it’s a hundred percent cool with you if I take Jeremy out and teach him some necromancy? He’s the one who asked, because apparently he was kinda fascinated when-“

“Fascinated in a gross way?” Geoff offers.

“What does 'in a gross way' mean?" Michael asks. “Like necrophilia or what?”

“Like in ‘he only wants to do it because he’s a young man and corpses are kind of gross’,” Geoff retorts. “That’s how young men work.”

Michael raises his voice -“I _am one_ , and I sure don’t feel like looking at dead bodies-“

“I’m just going to go ahead,” Ryan interrupts.

Geoff raises his glass. “Godspeed, then. But the lad's not allowed to complain about _anything_. If he does, I'll remind him that he hasn't seen shit compared to us. You too, Ryan.”

Ryan chuckles. "I might do that."

"Also," Geoff continues, "I am aware that I have set a precedent, so... Are you going to try and give him a peck or two while you practice?”

Ryan smiles as he shakes his head. “I shouldn’t have warned him about people holding back because Ray left – or the fact that we’re still dealing with after effects of that night or anything. I should’ve just warned him about _you.”_

“Oh. Don’t worry about me.” Geoff lays an arm around Michael’s shoulders. “I’m all settled."

A sunbeam falls through the dirty windowpane, warming Michael who’s already more than comfortable.

* * *

**Gavin** hears the conversation from the kitchen, behind a half-open door that still hides him. He isn’t really doing anything. He’s just feeding a bad habit of looking at Michael and Geoff from the outside even though he could easily join them now. He gets some possessive satisfaction from leaning against the door frame and thinking that they're  _his_. He hasn't told them, but it is a pervasive feeling that makes him raise his head a little bit more when he walks into the room. 

"Hey, Rye," he says, loudly, even though he isn't sure that Ryan ever gets startled. That's a subject deserving of scientific investigation another time.  

When Gavin sits down, Michael places his hands thoughtlessly on his knee. (It might just be to stop it from bouncing, but it's nice all the same).

 

After Ryan leaves, the distance between them gets even smaller. They sit beside each other, backs against the couch, playing video games like they’ve always done this together. Geoff, doing something vaguely work-like in the next room, chuckles when Gavin yelps in surprise or makes the time spent staring at a loading screen pass a little faster with a hypothetical question. 

Michael still flinches every once in a while. He reaches out or leans against Gavin before he pulls back. It happens the other way around, too: Boundaries are difficult to find when everything is blurry and pixellated, two beers behind them a little after ten o’clock. It’s a little awkward - but maybe, Gavin thinks, leaning his head against Michael’s, it’s not _that_ hard. Those intrusive thoughts don’t bother him not that he _has_ Michael. He’s not outside looking in, but on the floor with the boy he loves.

Neither of them want to leave. That’s the most important part.

Geoff comes in to sit behind them. His laughter comes closer, the competition between Michael and Gavin intensifying now that they have an audience watching. 

When he wins, Gavin raises his fist in the air, punching the universe. The charm dangles around his wrist and catches eyes just as well as the TV screen.

Michael catches him admiring it and asks, “Did it help you?”

“Against that… thing back there?” Gavin does what most of them have done the last days - he avoids assigning a name to the being or the place, making it simply that _thing_ and that place, _there_ , somewhere _else_. “I think so.”

Michael nods, pride shining on his face. It’s contagious.

“We didn’t do that bad after all,” Gavin says. “Like, when you think about it. It could’ve gone a lot worse, considering all that eldritch – oh, that reminds me-”

Michael raises an eyebrow. “Eldritch abominations remind you of what?”

“I’d like to spend the night.” Gavin’s eyes dart from Michael to Geoff and back again.

 “That’s where we’re going with this?” Geoff asks. “…Did you get hot and bothered by the thought of those tentacles?”

“Oh, _come on,_ Geoff,” Gavin groans. “I’m being sincere. Remember what we talked about? That we could pick up where we left off when it was all over? I think that'd be nice right about now."

Michael shrugs theatrically. “If you’ve decided this is the time to get to fourth base I’m not gonna stop you.”

Gavin blushes, warmth creeping across his face. He lets his head fall back and stares up at Geoff whose smile is almost worth the embarrassment.

Michael continues, shaking his head even as a smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. "We're planning sex like old people. Where's the spontaneity, is all I'm asking-"

“Is that a yes?” Gavin asks.

“…That’s a yes.” Michael rolls his eyes. " _Of course_ it's a fucking yes, Gavin."

And Geoff gives his answer with a hand reaching down to stroke the side of Gavin's face, and a half-mumbled "Sounds perfect." 

Gavin can’t help but feel that there’s something unsaid between them. He knows, logically, that sex is just sex -  sometimes a punchline, but never that important in the grand scheme of things – it’s not like it would give some kind of emotional, magical connection. But it might make all of them feel more alive, convince them that this is here and now, all safe on this side of the eldritch realm that hasn't quite left the back of his mind. Afterwards, he'll know he's on the other side of the terrible night. 

And okay. He kind of wants to see Michael one-hundred percent naked, so.

Awkward beginnings are a given, so he doesn’t feel bad about that. He feels only a last pang of guilt over those fantasies he had – and that goes away once Michael pulls him closer. At that point there's no doubt that Michael is very real and not just a fantasy.

* * *

Somewhere, **Michael** always knew it would happen on a Sunday.

When he walks to his bed, when he undoes each button and when he sees Gavin's naked body - it all feels like some small part of him always knew it would happen. Which isn't necessarily true, as God knows he's been confused, but it still gives the night a sheen of familiarity.

Gavin gets stuck as he pulls of his shirt, his groans about a _stupid collar_ muffled by the cloth until Michael helps him. With bed-hair already, he shrugs off Michael’s remark about how he’s harrier than expected.

An open window has caused all the air in the room to be cold, the bed sheets even colder. And it’s not like Michael can start to wax poetic about passionate heat. He isn't used to being this blasé about being naked around either of his lovers just yet. Gavin has no such problem, sitting cross legged against the wall. As Michael places kisses along his neck – and oh, he has been looking forward to making marks – Geoff is close by, undressing.

Michael recognizes Geoff’s body and notices the new marks and bruises. Gavin looks, his mouth half open as his breath already comes slightly quicker.

_Okay, fine, let the boy stare._

Except... Gavin repeatedly looks like he’s going to say something. He averts his eyes.

Finally, he runs his fingers through Michael’s hair as he gently pushes him away and admits, “I don’t really know what to do.”

Michael stops, hands on his knees. “How so?”

“It's not that I'm a virgin, not that.”

“You don’t need to tell me-“

“I just don't have any experience with this particular kind of... I don’t know what I’m going to do. What _we_ should do, since there's more than two of us and I mean, we should… divide our attention evenly…” Gavin licks his lips and looks to Geoff like he has the answers. "Otherwise it'd be bad for one of us."

Geoff shakes his head. “Just focus on… whatever you feel like. We have time.”

Michael runs his hand down Gavin’s side, barely able to feel his ribs. Gavin sighs along with the soothing motion that communicates what Geoff just said without any words. “We’ve been over this, Gavin. And we’ve got all night, haven’t we?”

“I have work tomorrow-“

“We have.” Michael silences Gavin with a kiss. “Let’s just say that we have.”

Gavin rolls his eyes and gives in.

It feels a great deal less forced when they touch. Michael no longer feels the same electricity as before now that being together has turned commonplace. It’s not like the other man is all lightning anymore - and it’s a lot easier to get physical with another person than an abstract concept.

 

It does not take long before Gavin and Geoff deal with years of pent-up sexual tension with zeal that kind of astonishes Michael. He only watches, content to let their issues unfold end resolve in the blue light.  

Before long, Geoff reaches out and pulls him closer.

It ends up being kind of desperate, really.

Maybe it is the fact that it has gotten dark, but it feels like they are right back at that first morning after the Ritual. It’s hard to go slow when every blue mark and closed cut is a reminder that you might not have been here if things had turned out a little different. And Michael finds himself reminded of the emptiness where his Gift should be. It is not as bad anymore, but he still prefers to forget about it with Gavin and Geoff, lost in the physical sensations and the fluttering feeling in his stomach. 

He gets lost in the act. Between two lovers, he is finally close to _complete_. Nothing is missing in this bed - or in the heart he knows at last, right down to the darker impulses in it, those thoughts that came alive in the gray realm.

* * *

Michael wakes up with a single thought in his head. 

 _Fuck birds_. 

The bastards have the nerve to sing at ass o'clock in the morning, and now that he's awake, he can't stay in bed no matter how warm it is. His sixth sense pulls at him for the first time in what feels like forever. It seizes his head as soon as he's conscious. 

Just before he pulls his t-shirt over his head, he looks back at the two others. Still in bed and still fast asleep, Gavin has his arms wrapped around Geoff. Finally a restful sleep. 

But he feels like he has to go out, into the garden. Barefooted, he steps on dew-covered grass and breathes cool morning air. He closes his eyes for a moment to listen to the wind and the birds – and under these sounds, he can hear the breathing of a universe. The membrane that divides the world from hidden places pulsates gently. Listening to it no longer scares him.

He fills his lungs with sunlight and exhales slowly.

Then it happens. 

Sparks dance in his breath. They are gold and auburn, sparkling briefly in the cold air. Another breath later, he can feel the fire that birthed them: it lives in his lungs and all the little hollow spaces in his body, spreading along his veins, and he has no doubt that this fire will only ever grow. If he once contained ashes, they are now aflame.

He wraps his arms around himself, shivering a little, cradling his Gift.

Red-and-yellow tulips bloom in uneven flowerbeds, and Michael supposes his heart must be the same color as he stands in yesterday’s clothes, ready to face the world.


	20. Almost-Epilogue

A month later, the moon is full again. It watches a different world as it hangs low in the blue morning sky.

Michael and Gavin sit in the backseat together while Geoff drives, and of course they get stuck in the goddamn traffic. There's no magic that can disperse that. But even as Michael complains, the slow movements of the car turn kind of calming. Maybe it is just the fact that it contrasts so much with how _he_ drives when anger overtakes him. How he drove months ago when he barged into the woods and stumbled upon Geoff for the first time.

He realizes that he hasn’t told Gavin about that meeting, so as the light turns red _yet again_ , he decides now might as well be a good time to do it. The other man laughs at Michael’s first impression of Geoff – “This weirdo with the ugliest mustache I had ever seen, sorry, Geoff, but I couldn’t appreciate it yet” – and does not ask where they are going either.

Michael doesn’t guess it until Geoff pulls up at the abandoned parking lot.

It is very early and the weekend to boot, so the campus is pretty desolate. Michael slams the car door as he steps out on the warm asphalt. 

"What're we doing here?" he asks. 

Geoff shrugs. "You're the ones who wanted to come along."

And along they go, gravel crunching under their feet before it gives way to grass. It only seems right to walk where you’re not supposed to, off the beaten path in more ways than one, leaving their footsteps in the soft ground. Gavin eyes the buildings. He keeps his phone at the ready in his hand, occasionally snapping a photo of their stretched-out shadows or the sun above the library building. Reflections in windows, faces with expressions one-part annoyed and pleased at the attempt to immortalize them. 

It used to be so weird that Ryan or Geoff could come by here. In the beginning, they had been invaders - representatives of a magical life that was not supposed to bleed into the mundane. Michael had been thinking that people would watch, judge, and somehow _know_ , but now the windows of the buildings no longer look like suspicious eyes. The thought of leading a double life seems a little childish. There’s nothing to keep separate now; He is connected to the magic in his body and in love with both the man who led him to it and the man who showed him how light and wonderful it could be. The thought dawns on him as the clouds part above, making the moment feel profound even though it is just a coincidence. He does not say anything about it. Instead he goes on, taking in the sight of his boyfriends – how strange to use that word in plural, but wonderful, too – against the backdrop he had loved and hated and now might at least tolerate.

“You know,” he begins, not knowing why he feels a need to speak out loud, “I forgot all about losing my job.”

“Can’t blame you for that with all that was going on,” Gavin says.

“No. But it was kind of more than that.” He breathes in deep. The air is fresh and just _cool_ , not really cold. “It was… a catalyst for realizing I didn’t know what I wanted at all. I didn’t know what to choose.”

Geoff pats him on the back. “Just let it all out.”

“Don’t patronize me,” Michael jokes, his tone as light as the breeze. “At some point I might've thought that – that if life didn’t make sense, I didn’t want to deal with it. I’d let things come as they may, and maybe that’s fine for a while, for some people. Just not choosing. But then I kind of had to, if I wanted to get you and not get my head fucked with by Hast-“

“Don’t say its name!” Gavin interrupts.

“Sorry. I don’t even know where I know it from-“

“Just don’t.”

“Right. Anyway, I guess I’m getting at the fact that I’m choosing _now_. Maybe I'll even figure out what the fuck to do with my life now that academics are kind of...”

Geoff cuts in with an off-handed, “That sounds like an improvement.”

“Yeah, if I had had a therapist somewhere in this mess they would've been jumping with joy now, I’m sure," Michael says, rolling his eyes. 

In front of the library, the few trees have taken the brunt of the storms, missing branches and bark, one or two toppled over. Soon, they will be removed by janitors and park personnel, leaving more space and light for other plants.

Michael realizes what Geoff wishes to do.

“The acorn.”

Geoff nods and withdraws it from his pocket. It seems bigger in his hand. Nourished by weeks’ worth of magic, it has a shine to it. No dead leaves sprout: It is as if time has been rewound.  

“All the stuff that little thing has seen,” Gavin says, seizing the acorn and holding it up towards the light. “Think it can still grow?”

“I don’t think nature gets a say in this, Gavin.” Michael snaps his fingers. “Just like that, right?”

Finding where he first spoke to Geoff is not as easy as he had thought it would be. The changed trees and the hundreds of memories he has made since then makes it hard to remember exactly. When he and Geoff finally agree on the place, a new bench has been installed more or less on the spot, and they have to settle for burying the acorn right next to it.

_Close enough._

Michael gets down on his knees where the two others join him despite mud and dead leaves, focusing instead on the little spring flowers. He imagines the tree casting shade for the people who will sit there in years to come. It is a nice thought, the kind that can make magic flow easier.

He digs with his bare hands. The soil is dry, warm at the top but colder as he reaches deeper, fingers grazing the twisting ends of earthworms and thin, string-like roots. His hands become black and brown. Once the hole is deep enough, Gavin is the one to place the acorn in its resting place.

He does it gently.

Then he immediately shoves the mound of earth Michael has made back into the hole. A few superficial pats do little to improve the overall impression, but it will have to do. Sunlight filters down onto their face and hands, and the flowers on Geoff’s skin are blooming.

The last part is pure improvisation. Geoff places his hands, palms down, above where the acorn lies. Gavin joins in, and Michael too. He apologizes for the mud, but none of them really hear him.

Slowly, surely, they work their magic.

Droplets of water drawn from the air settle on the surface, trickle down and disappear. A wish seeps down with the summer-like sunlight intensified by Gavin’s spell.

_Grow._

Michael watches as the plant spirals up, gaining a few inches of height. Magic flows freely from his two companions, their Gifts more or less returned to their natural state - Michael can not contribute as much. He knows he helps anyway, and that it will be enough.

He stands, breaking the spell. “Think we’re gonna carve our names into this when it grows bigger?”

Geoff looks at him. “That might take a while.”

“Either that,” Gavin says, “or you’ll write some expletive and Geoff and I’ll draw dicks or something.”

“Runes, maybe,” Geoff adds.

“Then we’ll just wait and see,” Michael decides. He sits down on the bench and motions for the others to join him. 

They come; Geoff on the far end of the bench and Gavin between them.

Their hands find each other - or, rather, Gavin forces them together. Again that simple word pops into Michael's head: _complete_.

“By the time it’s big enough, we’ll have figured out what to carve,” Michael says.

In the distance, a pair of students walk across the parking lot. They are small, mere silhouettes.

The sky is every color. Michael looks at it, and then beyond it. To the winds in motion, the swirling space behind. He licks his dry lips, exhaling as he shivers despite the warmth around him. He squeezes Gavin's hand. 

 _It’s fucked up_.

Fucked up that there are so many colors and so much magic, dark and light and arcane and ruinous, and times where he can be so happy despite knowing about sixth senses and silent watchers, whispers and visions and - and somehow he's loved and he - 

He has one hand free. He crosses his fingers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took way longer that I thought it would, but now it's over. I called this an almost-epilogue because it doesn't give a retrospective years later or anything like that. Just one month.  
> Find me on tumblr at strigimorphaes.tumblr.com if you want and ask me about how commited I was to putting obscure Lovecraft references into this. Thanks to everyone who forgave mistakes and read this far.


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